»;'.-*- 


m 

-- *: 


. 


SONGS   AND   BALLADS, 


BY  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 


MEMOIR  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY  AND  HART,  CHESNUT  STREET. 
.      1844. 


1  ;f 

Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1843,  by  CAREY 
AND  HART,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


C.    SHERMAN,    PRINTER, 

JO  St.  James  Street. 


CONTENTS. 


SKETCH  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY        -  •  ,t.    & 
My  First  Gray  Hair   .....                        -17 

I  neve"r  was  a  Favourite  -  -  •  -  -  •  -       20 

The  Weary  Watcher  ,     <v-        .    .  23 

The  Accepted       -  -       25 
The  Forsaken  to  the  False  One         -  28 

The  Forsaken  to  her  Father        -  -  30 

My  Home  is  the  World         -  ...  32 

I've  heard  my  own  dear  Mother  sing       -  -  -          ^..  -       35 

I  cannot  dance  to-night          ......  37 

Is  there  an  Unbeliever     -  *•  >.  -       38 

I  saw  her  on  the  Vessel's  Deck          •  39 

Rose  Aileen          ....  -       40 

Beauty,  Wit,  and  Gold  -  -  - .  41 

The  Pilot  ..v     v.  -       42 

Isle  of  Beauty,  fare  thee  well  -  -  -  T    -       .  43 

I'd  be  a  Butterfly  -  ......       44 

The  Soldier's  Tear     -  45 

The  dark  Winter  Time    -  -  46 

Long,  long  ago  -  -  -  -  -  •    -  47 

Teach,  oh  teach  me  to  forget      #"          -  .  .  .  -       48 

Too  oft  in  pure  Religion's  name        .....  49 

Oh,  I  come  not  to  upbraid  thee    ......       50 

May  thy  lot  in  life  be  happy  -  51 


597 


IV  CONTENTS. 

The  Veteran         -                     ^7;  .         '*.  *         -            .            -52 

My  pretty  Kate  -            -        4*-**        -            -              53 

The  Gipsy's  Mystery         -       r  y  4  .            .           *           .            .       54 

It  is  not  on  the  Battle-field      -  55 

Oh,  no !  we  never  mention  her     -  ...       56 

They  weep  when  I  have  named  her  -           -           -             57 

Welcome  me  home           -           -  -           -           .    ,       .           .       53 

I'm  saddest  when  I  sing         -  59 

'Twill  remind  you  of  me  60 

Oh,  where  do  Fairies  hide  their  heads  -            -              61 

Toujours  le  meme             -  •  »            -            -            .            -        62 

It  was  a  Dream  of  perfect  bliss  -            •    '                   -            -              63 

Why  comes  he  not                        -  ...       64 

The  Minstrel  .            .             65 

The  Cottage  Maid  -            -            -            -       66 

The  self-devoted  Nun  -                        -              67 

The  dark-eyed  Gipsy        -  ....       68 

My  Heart  is  oppressed  to-day  •                                                               69 

The  Grenadier      <•    •  ...       70 

The  Deserter  ....              71 

My  Heart  is  all  alone       -  -                                    -       72 

The  Rose  that  all  are  praising  -                                                               73 

Though  the  Summer  may  have  Roses  -                                                -       74 

The  Desert  Isle  ...              75 

Sigh  not  for  Summer  Flowers      -  -       76 

I  turn  to  thee  in  time  of  need  -                        -                                    .77 

Oh,  dark-eyed  Maid  of  Palestine  -       78 

Oh,  come  to  me           •  79 

The  .Song  of  the  Fay       -  80 

He  came  at  Morn        •  •                                                  81 

The  Deserted  Bride          -  -       82 

Of  what  is  the  old  Man  thinking  •                                                              83 

To  linger  near  thee  -    -                                                    84 

In  happier  Hours  85 


CONTENTS.  V 

Dearer  than  Life  thou  art        "'*"•'•''"  '           '           -       86 

Home  of  ray  Youth             i •"-  •          -  -           •                         87 

She  would  not  know  me              -  -            -         '  »  •  •  •        -           -88 

Our  Early  Days  ; »                          89 

Listen,  dear  Fanny            -  -            -         "*            •        90 

What  shall  be  my  theme        -  -             91 

Oh,  say  not 'twere  a  keener  blow  •                        •        f  ^  v<        •       92 

Go,  and  forget  that  we  have  met      -  ^»-  *         93 

The  Vows  of  Men  -       94 

Woman's  Courage      -            -  ...                         95 

The  Old  Kirk  Yard  -       96 

When  we  and  Care  were  strangers  -  97 

Hark!  hark!  I  hear  the  distant  Drum  -                                                        98 

The  last  Green  Leaf  -  99 

Oh,  sing  me  no  new  Songs  to-night  -           <*    :    •  -1                     -      100 

They  chide  me  for  my  Grief  -           +  -  101 

You  remember  it,  don't  you         -  •            •  -        -       "  <~           -     102 

Seek  not  with  Gold  and  glittering  Gem  -                                                103 

Oh,  hadst  thou  never  shared  my  Fate  -           -           -          f^          -      104 

Wither  away  -------  »  •          105 

The  gay  Troubadour        -  •»*•         -      106 

You  never  knew  Annette      -  -         "*./•-.    «•*'-.       -            107 

Sing  me  a  Melody  -                                    -      108 

The  Lock  of  Hair       -  109 

Grief  was  sent  thee  for  thy  good  •                   •£•'•''        •      HO 

Italy,  beautiful  land     -  111 

The  Mother  of  the  Soldier  Boy  -  -      112 

They  deem  it  a  Sorrow  gone  by  113 

Oh,  my  bravest  arid  best,  I  resign  thee  -                                                        114 

Withered  Roses  '\  '*            115 

The  Song  of  Gulnare       -  -                                                -      1 16 

She  never  blamed  him            -            -  -            -            -            -            117 

We  met     -                        -            -  -      119 

Upon  thy  Truth  relying         -  -                        -                        121 


VI  CONTENTS. 

The  Lady  of  my  Lord      -   '*  '(  > '  U    -  ,;                   -      123 

The  Dwarf     -  126 

I  stood  amid  the  glittering  throng       j.> »  •         A           -            -      129 

She  wore  a  Wreath  of  Roses             -       £*•  131 

I  knew  him  not — I  sought  him  not          -  -            -            -      133 

Theodore's  Messenger  135 

I  will  be  kind  to  you        -                     .-  -      136 

Three  times  had  the  Summons  resounded  -                       -           -            137 

Love  is  the  theme  of  the  Minstrel  -                                    -      138 

Oh !  from  a  Mother's  eye        -  •  •                                    139 

Take  your  Politics  hence             ...  .                  140 

Seeing's  not  Believing            *^  •                        •            141 

Three  weeks  after  Marriage        -  -                                    -      145 

A  Country  Ball  on  the  Almacks  plan  •                                                148 

Don't  sing  English  Ballads  to  me  ^U-T*       -      151 

My  cream-coloured  Ponies     -            -  •            -           -            -            153 

My  Married  Daughter  could  you  see       •  155 

Why  don't  the  Men  propose  -            -  -            -           -            -            157 

Lord  Harry  has  written  a  Novel  -           -  .*">           •           "•            *      159 

The  Pic-nic     -  161 

My  Dejeuner  a  la  Fourchette      -           -  "i"           -164 

Oh!  take  me  a  Box  at  the  Opera       -  .^v        .j*. .    ..;  - -, .       166 


NOTICE  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY  was  born  in  the  city  of  Bath,  in  the  year  1797. 
His  parents  were  connected  with  some  of  the  first  families  of  the  king- 
dom, and  on  the  completion  of  his  education  he  entered  under  favour- 
able auspices  the  circles  of  the  most  refined  and  brilliant  society  in  the 
world.  At  twenty-eight  he  was  married  to  an  accomplished  and  beau- 
tiful woman,  and  soon  afterwards  retired  to  a  country-seat  in  Sussex, 
where  he  continued  in  quietness  and  ease  until  1831,  when  an  unex- 
pected misfortune  changed  the  current  of  his  life.  His  wife  had  brought 
him  a  considerable  fortune,  but  it  had  been  expended ;  his  father  now 
suddenly  became  a  bankrupt  and  left  the  country,  and  the  income  set- 
tled on  the  poet  at  his  marriage  was  never  after  paid.  Literature  had 
hitherto  been  his  amusement,  it  was  from  this  time  his  profession.  He 
had  already  written  for  the  stage  and  the  boudoir,  he  now  made  the 
country  everywhere  vocal  with  his  comedies  and  his  songs.  To  the  end 
of  his  life  he  was  one  of  the  most  industrious  as  well  as  one  of  the  most 
successful  authors  of  England.  His  early  education  and  habits,  however, 
had  unfitted  him  for  his  new  position ;  he  could  not  fall  back  into  a  suffi- 
ciently economical  course  until  the  pressure  of  circumstances  had  im- 
poverished him  beyond  a  remedy ;  and  though  the  amount  received  for 
his  various  writings  was  large,  he  was  always  embarrassed.  Excite- 
ment and  suffering  at  length  induced  disease,  and  he  died,  at  Chelten- 
ham, on  the  twenty-second  day  of  April,  1839. 

This  is  believed  to  be  the  first  collection  that  has  been  made  of  Mr. 
Bayly's  songs  and  ballads,  and  as  most  of  them  were  written  for  com- 
posers and  publishers  of  music,  it  may  be  supposed  that  a  diversity  of 
interests  exists  in  the  copyrights,  which  will  for  the  present  prevent  their 
republication  in  this  form  in  England.  Beside  his  lyrical  pieces  he 
wrote  two  or  three  novels,  a  large  number  of  tales  and  sketches  in  the 
"  New  Monthly"  and  other  magazines,  and  more  than  thirty  dramas,  of 


Vlll  NOTICE  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

which  "  Perfection,"  "  Tom  Noddy's  Secret,"  "  Sold  for  a  Song,"  and 
others,  have  been  successfully  produced  in  the  American  theatres. 

With  the  exception  of  Moore,  Bayly  was  unquestionably  the  most 
popular  English  song-writer  of  his  age;  and  even  the  author  of  the 
"  Irish  Melodies" — unequalled  as  he  is  for  graceful  imagery  and  deli- 
cately turned  expression — never  has  been  so  universally  a  favourite.  "  Oh, 
no !  we  never  mention  her,"  "  The  Soldier's  Tear,"  "  She  wore  a  wreath 
of  Roses,"  and  many  more  of  his  songs,  are  familiar  wherever  the  Ian- 
guage  is  spoken ;  they  are  of  that  class  which, 

"  in  his  solitude, 
The  singer  singeth  to  his  own  sad  heart." 

They  are  simple,  natural,  graceful  and  tender — descriptive  of  the  feel- 
ings of  all,  in  a  language  which  all  can  appreciate  and  understand.  An 
English  critic,*  supposes  that  he  is  indebted  for  much  of  his  popularity 
to  his  former  position  in  society;  but  the  estimation  in  which  his  com- 
positions are  held  in  this  country,  where  his  personal  history  was  un- 
known, shows  the  opinion  to  be  erroneous.  It  is  not  always  easy  to 
discover  the  true  causes  of  an  author's  success.  Bayly  was  certainly 
not  one  of  the  first  poets  of  his  time — the  century  in  which  more  true 
and  enduring  poetry  was  written  than  in  any  other  since  the  invention 
of  letters — and  if  he  had  essayed  any  thing  of  a  more  ambitious  charac- 
ter than  the  simple  ballad,  doubtless  he  would  have  failed ;  but  by  her 
who  dallies  with  a  coronet  and  the  maiden  at  her  spinning-wheel,  by 
the  soldier,  the  student  and  the  cottage  Damon,  his  melodies  are  sung 
with  equal  feeling  and  admiration.  Many  have  written  "  songs,"  ex- 
quisitely beautiful  as  poems,  which  are  never  sung;  and  others,  like 
Dibdin,  have  produced  songs  for  particular  classes ;  but  Bayly  touches 
the  universal  heart.  He  is  never  mawkish,  never  obscure,  and  rarely 
meretricious ;  his  verse  is  singularly  harmonious ;  every  word  seems 
chosen  for  its  musical  sound  ;  and  his  modulation  is  unequalled.  Our 
rough  English  flows  from  his  pen  as  smoothly  as  the  soft  Italian  from 
that  of  Bojardo  or  Metastasio. 

R.  W.  G. 

Philadelphia,  November,  1843. 

*  Mr.  S.  C.  Hall. 


THE  SONGS  OF  T.  HAYNES  BAYLY. 


THE  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 

THE  matron  at  her  mirror, 

With  her  hand  upon  her  brow, 
Sits  gazing  on  her  lovely  face, — 

Ay,  lovely  even  now ; 
Why  doth  she  lean  upon  her  hand 

With  such  a  look  of  care  ? 
Why  steals  that  tear  across  her  cheek  ? 

She  sees  her  first  gray  hair. 

Time  from  her  form  hath  ta'en  away 

But  little  of  its  grace ; 
His  touch  of  thought  hath  dignified 

The  beauty  of  her  face ; 
Yet  she  might  mingle  in  the  dance, 

Where  maidens  gaily  trip, 
So  bright  is  still  her  hazel  eye, 

So  beautiful  her  lip. 
2 


18  THE  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 


The  faded  form  is  often  marked 

By  sorrow  more  than  years,  — 
The  wrinkle  on  the  cheek  may  be 

The  course  of  secret  tears  ; 
The  mournful  lip  may  murmur  of 

A  love  it  ne'er  confest, 
And  the  dimness  of  the  eye  betray 

A  heart  that  cannot  rest. 

But  she  hath  been  a  happy  wife  : 

The  lover  of  her  youth 
May  proudly  claim  the  smile  that  pays 

The  trial  of  his  truth  ; 
A  sense  of  slight,  —  of  loneliness,  — 

Hath  never  banished  sleep  : 
Her  life  hath  been  a  cloudless  one  ; 

Then  wherefore  doth  she  weep  ? 

She  looked  upon  her  raven  locks, 

What  thoughts  did  they  recall  ? 
Oh  !  not  of  nights  when  they  were  decked 

For  banquet  or  for  ball  ; 
They  brought  back  thoughts  of  early  youth, 

Ere  she  had  learnt  to  check, 
With  artificial  wreaths,  the  curls 

That  sported  o'er  her  neck. 

She  seemed  to  feel  her  mother's  hand 

Pass  lightly  through  her  hair, 
And  draw  it  from  her  brow,  to  leave 

A  kiss  of  kindness  there  ; 


THE  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 

She  seemed  to  view  her  father's  smile, 

And  feel  the  playful  touch 
That  sometimes  feigned  to  steal  away 

The  curls  she  prized  so  much. 

And  now  she  sees  her  first  gray  hair ! 

Oh,  deem  it  not  a  crime 
For  her  to  weep,  when  she  beholds 

The  first  footmark  of  Time  ! 
She  knows  that,  one  by  one,  those  mute 

Mementos  will  increase, 
And  steal  youth,  beauty,  strength  away, 

Till  life  itself  shall  cease. 

'Tis  not  the  tear  of  vanity 

For  beauty  on  the  wane ; 
Yet,  though  the  blossom  may  not  sigh 

To  bud  and  bloom  again—- 
It cannot  but  remember, 

With  a  feeling  of  regret, 
The  spring  for  ever  gone, — 

The  summer  sun  so  nearly  set. 

Ah,  lady  !  heed  the  monitor  ! 

Thy  mirror  tells  thee  truth  ; 
Assume  the  matron's  folded  veil, 

Resign  the  wreath  of  youth : 
Go !  bind  it  on  thy  daughter's  brow, 

In  her  thou'lt  still  look  fair — 
'Twere  well  would  all  learn  wisdom  who 

Behold  the  first  gray  hair  ! 


20 


I  NEVER  WAS  A  FAVOURITE. 

I  NEVER  was  a  favourite, — 

My  mother  never  smiled 
On  me,  with  half  the  tenderness 

That  blessed  her  fairer  child  : 
I've  seen  her  kiss  my  sister's  cheek, 

While  fondled  on  her  knee  ,* 
I've  turned  away,  to  hide  my  tears, — 

There  was  no  kiss  for  me  ! 

And  yet  I  strove  to  please  with  all 

My  little  store  of  sense  ; 
I  strove  to  please, — and  infancy 

Can  rarely  give  offence  : 
But  when  my  artless  efforts  met 

A  cold,  ungentle  check, 
I  did  not  dare  to  throw  myself 

In  tears  upon  her  neck ! 

How  blessed  are  the  beautiful  ! 

Love  watches  o'er  their  birth ; 
Oh,  beauty!  in  my  nursery 

I  learned  to  know  thy  worth : 


I  NEVER  WAS  A  FAVOURITE.  21 

For  even  there  I  often  felt 

Forsaken  and  forlorn ; 
And  wished — for  others  wished  it  too — 

I  never  had  been  born  ! 

j0jk 

I'm  sure  I  was  affectionate  ; 

But  in  my  sister's  face 
There  was  a  look  of  love,  that  claimed 

A  smile  or  an  embrace : 
But  when  I  raised  my  lip  to  meet 

The  pressure  children  prize, 
None  knew  the  feelings  of  my  heart, — 

They  spoke  not  in  my  eyes. 

But,  oh !  that  heart  too  keenly  felt 

The  anguish  of  neglect  ; 
I  saw  my  sister's  lovely  form 

With  gems  and  roses  decked  : 
I  did  not  covet  them  ;  but  oft, 

When  wantonly  reproved, 
I  envied  her  the  privilege 

Of  being  so  beloved. 

But  soon  a  time  of  triumph  came, — 

A  time  of  sorrow  too; 
For  sickness  o'er  my  sister's  form 

Her  venomed  mantle  threw; 
The  features,  once  so  beautiful, 

Now  wore  the  hue  of  death; 
And  former  friends  shrank  fearfully 

From  her  infectious  breath. 


22  I  NEVER  WAS  A  FAVOURITE. 

'Twas  then,  unwearied  day  and  night, 

I  watched  beside  her  bed ; 
And  fearlessly  upon  my  breast 

I  pillowed  her  poor  head. 
She  lived ! — and  loved  me  for  my  care,- 

My  grief  was  at  an  end  ; 
I  was  a  lonely  being  once, 

But  now  I  have  a  friend. 


23 


THE  WEARY  WATCHER. 

'Tis  not  the  hour  her  lover  named, 
Yet  she  already  deems  him  late  ; 

And  pouts  her  lip,  as  if  ashamed 

That  mortal  man  should  make  her  wait. 

She  counts  the  minutes  o'er  and  o'er, 
Yet  seems  unconscious  of  their  flight; 

And  she  will  watch  the  path  no  more 
Where  first  his  form  will  be  in  sight. 

And  were  she  summoned  by  his  voice, 

She  would  not  turn  her  head  to  greet  him ; 

Come  when  he  may,  she  will  rejoice 
To  show  how  coldly  she  can  meet  him ! 

She  will  not  frown,  for  frowns  would  say 
That  she  had  watched  for  his  return  ; 

She  will  not  smile, — it  would  betray 
She  saw  him  not  with  unconcern. 

Oh  !  should  he  ever  come,  no  trace 

Of  weak  emotion  shall  appear; 
She'll  seem,  while  gazing  on  his  face, 

Unconscious  that  he  stands  so  near. 


24  THE  WEARY  WATCHER. 

No  blush  shall  mantle  on  her  cheek, 
No  tear  shall  tremble  in  her  eye  ; 

To  some  young  stranger  she  will  speak, 
And  seem  engrossed  by  his  reply. 

And  thinking  thus,  she  proudly  leans 
Against  the  marble  balustrade ; 

Come  when  he  may,  she  never  means 
To  raise  her  eyes,  or  turn  her  head  ! 

Lady,  most  beautiful  thou  art, 

And  pride  becomes  thee  'mid  the  crowd : 

But  oh  !  with  him  who  wins  thy  heart, 

Thou'rt  fond — weak — any  thing  but  proud. 

Resentment  when  he  leaves  her  side, 
Betrays  the  depth  of  woman's  love ; 

And  when  she  prattles  of  her  pride, 

What  but  her  weakness  doth  she  prove  ? 

Why  starts  she  now  ?  why  turns  her  head 
With  such  a  glance  of  gay  delight  ? 

Alas  !  forgetting  all  she  said, 

She  smiles  the  moment  he's  in  sight ! 

The  weary  watcher  can  command 
No  word  to  wound,  no  frown  to  chill ; 

The  silent  pressure  of  her  hand 
Assures  him  he  is  welcome  still. 


25 


THE  ACCEPTED. 

I  THANK  you  for  that  downcast  look, 

And  for  that  blushing  cheek, 
I  would  not  have  you  raise  your  eyes, 

I  would  not  have  you  speak  : 
Though  mute,  I  deem  you  eloquent, 

I  ask  no  other  sign, 
While  thus  your  little  hand  remains 

Confidingly  in  mine. 

I  know  you  fain  would  hide  from  me 

Those  tell-tale  tears,  that  steal 
Unbidden  forth,  and  half  betray 

The  anxious  fears  you  feel ; 
From  friends  long  tried  and  dearly  loved, 

The  plighted  bride  must  part : 
Then  freely  weep — I  could  not  love 

A  cold  unfeeling  heart. 

I  know  you  love  your  cottage  home, 

Where  in  the  summer  time, 
Your  hand  has  taught  the  clematis, 

Around  the  porch  to  climb ; 


26  THE  ACCEPTED. 

Yon  casement  with  the  wild-rose  screen, 

Yon  little  garden  too, 
How  many  fond  remembrances 

Endear  them  all  to  you. 

You  sigh  to  leave  your  mother's  roof, 

Though  on  my  suit  she  smiled, 
And  spurning  every  selfish  thought, 

Gave  up  her  darling  child  ; 
Sigh  not  for  her — she  now  may  claim 

Kind  deeds  from  more  than  one  / 
She'll  gaze  upon  her  daughter's  smiles, 

Supported  by  her  son  ! 

I  thank  you  for  that  look — it  speaks 

Reliance  on  my  truth  ; 
And  never  shall  unkindness  wound 

Your  unsuspecting  youth; 
If  fate  should  frown,  and  anxious  thoughts 

Oppress  your  husband's  mind, 
Oh  !  never  fear  to  cling  to  me — 

I  could  not  be  unkind. 

Come,  look  upon  this  golden  ring — 

You  have  no  cause  to  shrink, 
Though  oft  'tis  galling  as  the  slave's 

Indissoluble  link  ! 
And  look  upon  yon  church,  the  place 

Of  blessings  and  of  prayer, 
Before  the  altar  hear  my  vows — 

Who  could  dissemble  there  ? 


THE  ACCEPTED.  27 

Come  to  my  home ;  your  bird  shall  have 

As  tranquil  a  retreat ; 
Your  dog  shall  find  a  resting-place, 

And  slumber  at  your  feet ; 
And  while  you  turn  your  spinning-wheel, 

Oh  !  let  me  hear  you  sing, 
Or  I  shall  think  you  cease,  to  love 

Your  little  golden  ring. 


28 


THE  FORSAKEN  TO  THE  FALSE  ONE. 

I  DARE  thee  to  forget  me  ! 

Go  wander  where  thou  wilt  ; 
Thy  hand  upon  the  vessel's  helm, 

Or  on  the  sabre's  hilt  ; 
Away  !  thou'rt  free  !  o'er  land  and  sea 

Go  rush  to  danger's  brink  ! 
But  oh,  thou  can'st  not  fly  from  thought ! 

Thy  curse  will  be — to  think  ! 

Remember  me  !  remember  all, 

My  long  enduring  love, 
That  linked  itself  to  perfidy; 

The  vulture  and  the  dove ! 
Remember  in  thy  utmost  need, 

I  never  once  did  shrink, 
But  clung  to  thee  confidingly  ; 

Thy  curse  shall  be — to  think. 

Then  go  !  that  thought  will  render  thee 

A  dastard  in  the  fight ; 
That  thought,  when  thou  art  tempest-tost, 

Will  fight  thee  with  affright ! 


THE  FORSAKEN  TO  THE  FALSE  ONE.  29 

In  some  wild  dungeon  may'st  thou  lie, 

And,  counting  each  cold  link 
That  binds  thee  to  captivity, 

Thy  curse  shall  be — to  think  ! 

Go  seek  the  merry  banquet  hall, 

Where  younger  maidens  bloom, 
The  thought  of  me  shall  make  thee  there 

Endure  a  deeper  gloom  ; 
That  thought  shall  turn  the  festive  cup 

To  poison  while  you  drink, 
And  while  false  smiles  are  on  thy  cheek, 

Thy  curse  will  be — to  think  ! 

Forget  me,  false  one !  hope  it  not ! 

When  minstrels  touch  the  string, 
The  memory  of  other  days 

Will  gall  thee  while  they  sing  ; 
The  airs  I  used  to  love  will  make 

Thy  coward  conscience  shrink, 
Ay,  every  note  will  have  its  sting, 

Thy  curse  will  be — to  think  ! 

Forget  me  !  No,  that  shall  not  be  ! 

I'll  haunt  thee  in  thy  sleep, 
In  dreams  thou'lt  cling  to  slimy  rocks 

That  overhang  the  deep  ; 
Thou'lt  shriek  for  aid  !  my  feeble  arm 

Shall  hurl  thee  from  the  brink, 
And  when  thou  wak'st  in  wild  dk  may, 

Thy  curse  will  be — to  think. 


30 


THE  FORSAKEN  TO  HER  FATHER. 

OH,  name  him  not,  unless  it  be 

In  terms  I  shall  not  blush  to  hear  : 
Oh,  name  him  not,  though  false  to  me, 

Forget  not  he  was  once  so  dear. 
Oh,  think  of  former  happy  days, 

When  none  could  breathe  a  dearer  name  ; 
And  if  you  can  no  longer  praise, 

Be  silent,  and  forbear  to  blame  ! 

He  may  be  all  that  you  have  heard, 

If  proved,  'twere  folly  to  defend  : 
Yet  pause  ere  you  believe  one  word 

Breathed  'gainst  the  honour  of  a  friend. 
How  many  seem  in  haste  to  tell 

What  friends  can  never  wish  to  know ! 
/answer — once  I  knew  him  well, 

And  then,  at  least,  it  was  not  so. 

You  say,  when  all  condemn  him  thus, 
To  praise  him  leads  to  disrepute  : 

But,  had  the  world  thus  censured  us, 
Father  !  he  would  not  have  been  mute  ! 


THE  FORSAKEN  TO  HER  FATHER.  31 

He  may  be  changed,  and  he  may  learn 

To  slander  friends,  as  others  do  : 
But  if  we  blame  him,  we  in  turn 

Have  learned  that  hateful  lesson  too ! 

Desertion  of  myself,  his  worst, 

His  only  crime  perhaps  may  prove ; 
Shall  he  of  all  men  be  the  first 

Condemned  for  being  false  in  love  ? 
The  world  has  never  yet  denied 

Its  favour  to  the  falsest  heart ; 
Its  sanction  rather  seems  to  guide 

The  hand  again  to  aim  the  dart ! 

You  hate  him,  father,  for  you  know 

That  he  was  cruel  to  your  child. 
Alas  !  I  strove  to  hide  my  woe, 

And  when  you  looked  on  me,  I  smiled  ; 
But  on  my  faded  cheek  appears 

An  evidence  of  all  I've  felt : 
I  prayed  for  strength,  but  falling  tears 

Betrayed  my  weakness  as  I  knelt. 

Oh  !  hate  him  not :  he  must  have  seen 

Some  error,  that  was  never  meant  ! 
And  love,  you  know,  hath  ever  been 

Prone  to  complain,  and  to  resent ! 
Hate  him  not,  father !  nor  believe 

Imputed  crimes  till  they  are  proved  ; 
And  proof  should  rather  make  us  grieve 

For  one  who  once  was  so  beloved. 


MY  HOME  IS  THE  WORLD. 

SPEED,  speed,  my  fleet  vessel !  the  shore  is  in  sight, 
The  breezes  are  fair,  we  shall  anchor  to-night : 
To-morrow,  at  sunrise,  once  more  I  shall  stand 
On  the  sea-beaten  shore  of  my  dear  native  land. 

Ah  !  why  does  despondency  weigh  down  my  heart  ? 
Slick  thoughts  are  for  friends  who  reluctantly  part; 
I  come  from  an  exile  of  twenty  long  years, 
Yet  I  gaze  on  my  country  through  fast-falling  tears  ! 

I  see  the  hills  purple  with  bells  of  the  heath, 
And  my  own  happy  valley  that  nestles  beneath. 
And  the  fragrant  white  blossoms  spread  over  the  thorn 
That  grows  near  the  cottage  in  which  I  was  born. 

It  cannot  be  changed, — no,  the  clematis  climbs 
O'er  the  gay  little  porch  as  it  did  in  old  times ; 
And  the  seat  where  my  father  reclined  is  still  there — 
But  where  is  my  father  ?  Oh  !  answer  me,  where  ? 

My  mother's  own  casement,  the  chamber  she  loved, 

Is  there  overlooking  the  lawn  where  I  roved  ; 

She  thoughtfully  sat  with  her  hand  on  her  brow 

As  she  watched  her  young  darling;— ah !  where  is  she  now? 


MY  HOME  IS  THE  WORLD.  33 

And  there  is  my  dear  sister's  garden  ;  how  wild 

Were  the  innocent  sports  of  that  beautiful  child! 

Her  voice  had  a  spell  in  its  musical  tone, 

And  her  cheek  was  like  rose-leaves  ! — ah  !  where  is  she  gone? 

No  father  reclines  in  the  clematis  seat ! 

No  mother  looks  forth  from  the  shaded  retreat ! 

No  sister  is  there  stealing  slily  away, 

Till  the  half-suppressed  laughter  betrayed  where  she  lay. 

How  oft  in  my  exile,  when  kind  friends  were  near, 
I've  slighted  their  kindness  and  wished  to  be  here! 
How  oft  have  I  said — "  Could  I  once  again  see 
That  sweet  little  valley,  how  blest  should  I  be !" 

How  blest ! — Oh  !  it  is  not  a  valley  like  this, 
That  unaided  can  realize  visions  of  bliss  ; 
For  voices  I  listen,  and  then  I  look  round 
For  light  steps  that  used  to  trip  after  the  sound. 

But  see  this  green  path !  I  remember  it  well, 

'Tis  the  way  to  the  church — hark  !  the  toll  of  the  bell ! 

How  oft  in  my  boyhood  a  truant  I  strayed 

To  yonder  green  yew-tree,  and  slept  in  its  shade. 

But  surely  the  pathway  is  narrower  now  ! 
No  smooth  place  is  left  'neath  the  dark  yew-tree's  bough. 
O'er  tablets  inscribed  with  sad  records  I  tread, 
And  the  home  I  have  sought — is  the  home  of  the  dead  ! 

3 


34  MY  HOME  IS  THE  WORLD. 

And  was  it  for  this  I  looked  forward  so  long  ? 
And  shrunk  from  the  sweetness  of  Italy's  song  ? 
And  turned  from  the  dance  of  the  dark  girl  of  Spain  ? 
And  wept  for  my  country,  again  and  again  ? 

And  was  it  for  this  to  my  casement  I  crept 
To  gaze  on  the  deep  when  I  dreamed  that  I  slept  ? 
To  think  of  fond  meetings — the  welcome — the  kiss — 
The  friendly  hand's  pressure — ah  !  was  it  for  this  1 

When  those  who  so  long  have  been  absent  return 
To  the  scenes  of  their  childhood,  it  is  but  to  mourn  ; 
Wounds  open  afresh  that  time  nearly  had  healed, 
And  the  ills  of  a  life  at  one  glance  are  revealed. 

Speed,  speed,  my  fleet  vessel, — the  tempest  may  rave, 
There's  calm  for  my  heart  in  the  dash  of  the  wave  : 
Speed,  speed,  my  fleet  vessel — the  sails  are  unfurled, 
Oh !  ask  me  not  whither  ?  my  home  is  the  world  ! 


35 


I'VE  HEARD  MY  OWN  DEAR  MOTHER  SING. 

I'VE  heard  my  own  dear  mother  sing 

A  song  of  other  times, 
'Twas  one  she  valued  more  than  all 

Her  store  of  ballad  rhymes  ; 
The  theme  was  one  too  often  sung — 

The  faithlessness  of  man  ! 
And  when  I  said,  "  Come,  sing  to  me," 
'Twas  thus  her  burden  ran — 

"  Beware  !  beware  !  oh,  ladies  fair ! 
Of  man's  deceit  beware  ! 
Beware  !  beware  !  oh,  ladies  fair, 
Of  man's  deceit  beware  !" 

I  wondered  why  my  mother  wept, 

For  then  she  still  was  young, 
Yet  with  a  touching  earnestness 

These  warning  lines  she  sung — 
"  I  used  to  think  man  may  be  false  ;" 

But  what  is  that  to  us  ? 
And  when  I  said,  "  Come,  sing  to  me," 

The  burden  still  ran  thus — 
"  Beware  !  beware  !"  &c. 


36  I'VE  HEARD  MY  OWN  DEAR  MOTHER  SING. 

And  now  that  strain  I  ne'er  shall  hear 

From  those  dear  lips  again  ! 
Yet  in  my  mem'ry's  deepest  cell 
Those  warning  lines  remain ; 
I  thought  not  of  thy  gentle  voice — 

I  heard  a  lover's  vow  ; 
But  oh  !  my  mother,  feelingly 
I  sing  that  burden  now: — 

"  Beware  !  beware  !  oh,  ladies  fair  ! 
Of  man's  deceit  beware  ! 
Beware  !  beware  !  oh,  ladies  fair, 
Of  man's  deceit  beware !" 


37 


I  CANNOT  DANCE  TO-NIGHT. 

OH  !  when  they  brought  me  hither, 

They  wondered  at  my  wild  delight, 
But  would  I  were  at  home  again, 

I  cannot  dance  to-night. 
How  can  they  all  look  cheerful  ? 

The  dance  seems  strangely  dull  to  me, 
The  music  sounds  so  mournful, 

What  can  the  reason  be  ? 

Hark  !  hark  !  at  length  he's  coming, 

I  am  not  weary — let  me  stay  ! 
I  hear  his  laugh  distinctly  now, 

'Twill  chase  the  gloom  away. 
Oh  !  would  that  I  were  near  him, 

He  sees  me  not  amid  the  crowd  ; 
He  hears  me  not — ah  would  I  dared, 

To  breathe  his  name  aloud. 

He  leaves  that  group  of  triflers, 

And  with  the  smile  I  love  to  see, 
He  seems  to  seek  for  some  one — 

Oh,  is  it  not  for  me  ? 
No,  no  !  'tis  for  that  dark-eyed  girl, 

I  see  her  now  return  his  glance  ; 
He  passes  me — he  takes  her  hand — 

He  leads  her  to  the  dance ! 


38 


IS  THERE  AN  UNBELIEVER? 

Is  there  an  unbeliever  ? 

One  man  who  walks  the  earth, 
And  madly  doubts  that  Providence 

Watched  o'er  him  at  his  birth  ? 
He  robs  mankind  for  ever 

Of  hopes  beyond  the  tomb  ; 
What  gives  he  as  a  recompense? 

The  brute's  unhallowed  doom. 

In  manhood's  loftiest  hour, 

In  health,  and  strength,  and  pride, 
Oh  !  lead  his  steps  through  valleys  green, 

Where  rills  mid  cowslips  glide  : 
Climb  Nature's  granite  tower, 

Where  man  hath  rarely  trod  : 
And  will  he  then,  in  such  a  scene, 

Deny  there  is  a  God  ? 

Yes — the  proud  heart  will  ever 

Prompt  the  false  tongue's  reply  ! 
An  Omnipresent  Providence 

Still  madly  he'll  deny. 
But  see  the  unbeliever 

Sinking  in  death's  decay  ; 
And  hear  the  cry  of  penitence  ! — 

He  never  learnt  to  pray  ! 


39 


I  SAW  HER  ON  THE  VESSEL'S  DECK. 

I  SAW  her  on  the  vessel's  deck, 

A  young  and  blooming  bride  ; 
Her  heart's  first  love,  her  wedded  lord, 

Was  standing  at  her  side  : 
And  gazing  on  the  friends  of  youth, 

Perchance  her  eyes  were  dim  ; 
But,  smiling  through  her  tears  she  said, 

"  I  give  up  all  for  him." 

Oh  !  long  had  those  two  beings  loved, 

Exchanging  vows  of  truth  ; 
How  sad  it  is  when  sorrow  stains 

The  happy  page  of  youth  ! 
When  fortune  smiled,  her  promised  store 

Lay  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
But  danger  had  no  fears  for  them, 

Encountered  hand  in  hand. 

Again  she  sought  her  native  shore, 

Ere  two  brief  years  were  gone  ; 
Her  hand  no  gentle  pressure  felt, 

She  paced  the  deck  alone  ! 
To  weep  upon  a  mother's  breast, 

Again  she  crossed  the  wave  ; 
And,  self-reproved,  in  secret  mourns 

Desertion  of  his  grave. 


40 


ROSE  AILEEN. 

IT  is  not  long  since  last  we  met, 

And  you  are  still  the  same  ; 
Yet,  oh  !  I  saw  you  knew  me  not, 

Until  I  told  my  name. 
You  mourn  the  change,  and  well  you  know 

How  deep  my  grief  has  been, 
For  you  were  with  me  when  I  won 

The  love  of  Rose  Aileen. 

I  grieve  to  think  my  looks  betray 

The  anguish  of  my  heart ; 
In  death — I'd  proudly  still  deny 

That  I  had  felt  the  dart  : 
Assuming  smiles — amid  the  gay 

I  fain  would  still  be  seen; 
I  would  not  have  the  world  believe, 

I  sigh  for  Rose  Aileen. 

Yet  do  not  heed  my  selfish  boast — 

A  motive  far  more  pure 
Would  make  me  struggle  to  conceal 

The  anguish  I  endure : 
I'd  rather  mourn  in  solitude 

Unpitied  and  unseen, 
Than  that  my  gloom  should  seem  to  chide 

The  smiles  of  Rose  Aileen. 


41 


BEAUTY,  WIT,  AND  GOLD. 

• 

IN  her  bower  a  widow  dwelt, 
At  her  feet  three  lovers  knelt ; 
Each  adored  the  widow  much, 
Each  essayed  her  heart  to  touch ; 
One  had  wit,  and  one  had  gold — 
One  was  cast  in  beauty's  mould ; 
Guess,  which  was  it  won  the  prize — 
Tongue,  or  purse,  or  handsome  eyes  ? 

First  began  the  handsome  man, 
Peeping  proudly  o'er  her  fan, 
Red  his  lips  and  white  his  skin, 
Could  such  beauty  fail  to  win  ? 
Then  stepped  forth  the  man  of  gold, 
Cash  he  counted,  coin  he  told ; 
Wealth  the  burden  of  the  tale, — 
Could  such  golden  projects  fail  ? 

Then  the  man  of  wit  and  sense 
Woo'd  her  with  his  eloquence, 
Now  she  heard  him  with  a  sigh, 
Then  she  blushed  scarce  knowing  why; 
Then  she  smiled  to  hear  him  speak, 
Then  a  tear  was  on  her  cheek  ; 
Beauty  vanish — gold  depart — 
Wit  hath  won  the  widow's  heart ! 


42 


THE  PILOT. 

OH,  pilot !  'tis  a  fearful  night, 

There's  danger  on  the  deep, 
I'll  come  and  pace  the  deck  with  thee, 

I  do  not  dare  to  sleep. 
Go  down  !  the  sailor  cried,  go  down, 

This  is  no  place  for  thee, 
Fear  not ;  but  trust  in  Providence, 

Wherever  thou  may'st  be. 

Ah  !  pilot,  dangers  often  met, 

We  all  are  apt  to  slight, 
And  thou  hast  known  these  raging  waves 

But  to  subdue  their  might : 
It  is  not  apathy,  he  cried, 

That  gives  this  strength  to  me  ; 
Fear  not ;  but  trust  in  Providence, 

Wherever  thou  may'st  be. 

On  such  a  night  the  sea  engulfed 

My  father's  lifeless  form  ; 
My  only  brother's  boat  went  down 

In  just  so  wild  a  storm  : 
And  such,  perhaps,  may  be  my  fate, 

But  still,  I  say  to  thee 
Fear  not ;  but  trust  in  Providence, 

Wherever  thou  may'st  be. 


43 


ISLE  OF  BEAUTY,  FARE  THEE  WELL  ! 

SHADES  of  ev'ning,  close  not  o'er  us, 

Leave  our  lonely  bark  awhile  ! 
Morn,  alas  !  will  not  restore  us 

Yonder  dim  and  distant  isle  ; 
Still  my  fancy  can  discover 

Sunny  spots  where  friends  may  dwell ; 
Darker  shadows  round  us  hover, 

Isle  of  Beauty,  fare  thee  well ! 

'Tis  the  hour  when  happy  faces 

Smile  around  the  taper's  light ; 
Who  will  fill  our  vacant  places  ? 

Who  will  sing  our  songs  to-night  ? 
Through  the  mist  that  floats  above  us, 

Faintly  sounds  the  vesper  bell, 
Like  a  voice  from  those  who  love  us, 

Breathing,  fondly,  fare  thee  well  ' 

% 

When  the  waves  are  round  me  breaking, 

As  I  pace  the  deck  alone, 
And  my  eye  in  vain  is  seeking 

Some  green  leaf  to  rest  upon  ; 
What  would  not  I  give  to  wander 

Where  my  old  companions  dwell  ? 
Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder, 

Isle  of  Beauty,  fare  thee  well ! 


44 


I'D  BE  A  BUTTERFLY. 

I'D  be  a  butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

Where  roses  and  lilies  and  violets  meet ; 
Roving  for  ever  from  flower  to  flower, 

Kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet. 
I'd  never  languish  for  wealth  or  for  power, 

I'd  never  sigh  to  see  slaves  at  my  feet ; 
I'd  be  a  butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

Kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet. 

Oh  !  could  I  pilfer  the  wand  of  a  fairy, 

I'd  have  a  pair  of  those  beautiful  wings. 
Their  summer  day's  ramble  is  sportive  and  airy, 

They  sleep  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 
Those  who  have  wealth  must  be  watchful  and  wary, 

Power,  alas  !  nought  but  misery  brings  ; 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  sportive  and  airy, 

Rocked  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 

mf 
What  though  you  tell  me  each  gay  little  rover 

Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autumn  day; 
Surely  'tis  better,  when  summer  is  over, 

To  die,  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away. 
Some  in  life's  winter  may  toil  to  discover 

Means  of  procuring  a  weary  delay : 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  living  a  rover, 

Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away. 


45 


THE  SOLDIER'S  TEAR. 

UPON  the  hill  he  turned 

To  take  a  last  fond  look, 
Of  the  valley  and  the  village  church 

And  the  cottage  by  the  brook  ; 
He  listened  to  the  sounds, 

So  familiar  to  his  ear, 
And  the  soldier  leant  upon  his  sword 

And  wiped  away  a  tear. 

Beside  that  cottage  porch 

A  girl  was  on  her  knees, 
She  held  aloft  a  snowy  scarf, 

Which  fluttered  in  the  breeze  ; 
She  breathed  a  prayer  for  him, 

A  prayer  he  could  not  hear, 
But  he  paused  to  bless  her,  as  she  knelt, 

And  wiped  away  a  tear. 

He  turned  and  left  the  spot, 

Oh,  do  not  deem  him  weak  ; 
For  dauntless  was  the  soldier's  heart, 

Though  tears  were  on  his  cheek  ; 
Go  watch  the  foremost  rank 

In  danger's  dark  career, 
Be  sure  the  hand  most  daring  there 

Has  wiped  away  a  tear. 


46 


THE  DARK  WINTER  TIME. 

A  GOBLET  with  gems  may  be  shining, 

Though  bitter  the  poison  within  ; 
So  gay  wreaths  are  often  entwining 

The  lure  that  entices  to  sin  : 
Oh  !  turn  from  the  false  tongues  that  flatter, 

They  cannot  ennoble  a  crime  ! 
Oh  !  think  of  the  thorns  that  would  scatter 

O'er  thy  path  in  the  dark  winter  time. 

The  home  of  thy  youth  may  be  lonely, 

The  friends  of  thy  youth  may  be  cold  ; 
The  morals  they  teach  may  seem  only 

Fit  chains  for  the  feeble  and  old  : 
Yet,  though  they  may  fetter  a  spirit 

That  soars  in  the  pride  of  its  prime, 
The  friends  of  thy  infancy  merit 

All  thy  love  in  the  dark  winter  time. 

The  stranger  in  gems  would  array  thee, 

More  pure  are  the  braids  thou  hast  worn ; 
Say,  would  not  their  lustre  betray  thee, 

Attracting  the  finger  of  scorn  ? 
Go  gaze  once  again  on  thy  dwelling, 

The  porch  where  the  wild  flowers  climb  ; 
Go  pray,  while  thy  young  heart  is  swelling 

Pray  for  peace  in  the  dark  winter  time. 


47 


LONG,  LONG  AGO. 

TELL  me  the  tales  that  to  me  were  so  dear, 

Long,  long  ago, — long,  long  ago  ; 
Sing  me  the  songs  I  delighted  to  hear, 

Long,  long  ago, — long  ago. 

Now  you  are  come,  all  my  grief  is  removed, 

Let  me  forget  that  so  long  you  have  roved, 

Let  me  believe  that  you  love  as  you  loved, 

Long,  long  ago, — long  ago. 

Do  you  remember  the  path  where  we  met, 
Long,  long  ago, — long,  long  ago  ? 
Ah,  yes  ;  you  told  me  you  ne'er  would  forget, 

Long,  long  ago, — long  ago. 

Then  to  all  others  my  smile  you  preferred, 

Love  when  you  spoke  gave  a  charm  to  each  word, 

Still  my  heart  treasures  the  praises  I  heard, 

Long,  long  ago,— long  ago. 

Though  by  your  kindness  my  fond  hopes  were  raised, 
Long,  long  ago,— long,  long  ago ; 

You  by  more  eloquent  lips  have  been  praised, 
Long,  long  ago, — long  ago. 

But  by  long  absence  your  truth  has  been  tried, 

Still  to  your  accents  I  listen  with  pride, 

Blest  as  I  was  when  I  sat  by  your  side, 
Long,  long  ago, — long  ago. 


48 


TEACH,  OH !  TEACH  ME  TO  FORGET. 

FRIENDS  depart,  and  memory  takes  them 

To  her  caverns  pure  and  deep  ! 
And  a  forced  smile  only  wakes  them 

From  the  shadows  where  they  sleep  ! 
Who  shall  school  the  heart's  affection  ? 

Who  shall  banish  its  regret? 
If  you  blame  my  deep  dejection, 

Teach,  oh  !  teach  me,  to  forget ! 

Bear  me  not  to  festive  bowers, 

'Twas  with  them  I  sat  there  last ! 
Weave  me  not  spring's  early  flowers, 

They'll  remind  me  of  the  past. 
Music  seems  like  mournful  wailing, 

In  the  halls  where  we  have  met ; 
Mirth's  gay  call  is  unavailing, 

Teach,  oh  !  teach  me,  to  forget ! 

One  who  hopelessly  remembers, 

Cannot  bear  a  dawning  light ; 
He  would  rather  watch  the  embers 

Of  a  love  that  once  was  bright. 
Who  shall  school  the  heart's  affection  ? 

Who  shall  banish  its  regret  ? 
If  you  blame  my  deep  dejection, 

Teach,  oh  !  teach  me,  to  forget ! 


49 


TOO  OFT  IN  PURE  RELIGION'S  NAME. 

Too  oft  in  pure  Religion's  name 

Hath  human  blood  been  spilt, 
And  Pride  hath  claimed  a  patriot's  fame, 

To  crown  the  deed  of  guilt ! 
Oh  !  look  not  on  the  field  of  blood — 

Religion  is  not  there  ; 
Her  battle-field  is  solitude — 

Her  only  watchword  Prayer  ! 

The  sable  cowl  Ambition  wears 
To  hide  its  laurel  wreath ; 

The  spotless  sword  that  Virtue  bears, 
Will  slumber  in  its  sheath  ; 

The  truly  brave  fight  not  for  fame, 
Though  fearless  they  go  forth ; 

They  war  not  in  Religion's  name—- 
They pray  for  peace  on  earth  ! 

By  them,  that  fear  is  never  felt 

Which  weakly  clings  to  life, 
If  shrines  by  which  their  fathers  knelt, 

Be  periled  in  the  strife ; 
Not  theirs  the  heart,  that  spiritless 

From  threatened  wrong  withdraws  ; 
Not  theirs  the  vaunted  holiness 

That  veils  an  earthly  cause. 
^     4 


50 


OH,  I  COME  NOT  TO  UPBRAID  THEE. 

OH,  I  come  not  to  upbraid  thee, 

Nor  to  woo  thee  am  I  here  ; 
Though  in  peril  I  would  aid  thee, 

Th  ugh  in  sorrow  I  would  cheer  ; 
Though  'tis  thou  I'd  snatch  from  danger, 

On  its  brink  were  thousands  thrown ; 
Yet  the  vow  of  some  mere  stranger 

I  would  trust  before  thine  own  ! 

It  will  be  a  source  of  wonder, 

When  we  part,  I  know  it  well ; 
Why  our  hearts  were  torn  asunder, 

Let  thine  own  false  accents  tell ; 
Thou  may'st  say  I  did  deceive  thee — 

Unprovoked  I  did  renounce  ; 
There  are  many  will  believe  thee, 

E'en  as  I  beloved  thee  once. 

I  would  peril  life  to  save  thee ; 

For  no  other  do  I  live ; 
No — the  love  I  freely  gave  thee, 

To  no  other  can  I  give : 
And  with  me  all  love  was  over, 

When  my  first  love  proved  a  dream  ; 
I  have  ceased  to  be  thy  lover, 

Love  could  not  survive  esteem. 


51 


MAY  THY  LOT  IN  LIFE  BE  HAPPY. 

MAY  thy  lot  in  life  be  happy, 
Undisturbed  by  thoughts  of  me, 

The  God  who  shelters  innocence, 
Thy  guard  and  guide  will  be ; 

Thy  heart  will  lose  the  chilling  sense 
Of  hopeless  love  at  last, 

And  the  sunshine  of  the  future 
Chase  the  shadows  of  the  past. 

I  never  wish  to  meet  thee  more, 

Though  I  am  still  thy  friend  ; 
I  never  wish  to  meet  thee  more, 

Since  dearer  ties  must  end  ; 
With  worldly  smiles,  and  worldly  words, 

I  could  not  pass  thee  by, 
Nor  turn  from  thee  unfeelingly, 

With  cold  averted  eye. 

I  never  wish  to  meet  thee  more, 

Yet  think  not  I've  been  taught 
By  smiling  foes  to  injure  thee 

By  one  unworthy  th  mght ; 
No  !  blest  with  some  beloved  one, 

From  care  and  sorrow  free, 
May  thy  lot  in  life  be  happy, 

Undisturbed  by  thoughts  of  me. 


THE  VETERAN. 

IT  was  a  Sabbath  morn, 

The  bell  had  chimed  for  church, 
And  the  young  and  gay  were  gathering 

Around  the  rustic  porch  ; 

There  came  an  aged  man, 

In  a  soldier's  garb  was  he, 
And  gazing  round  the  group,  he  cried, 

"  Do  none  remember  me  ?" 

The  veteran  forgot 

His  friends  were  changed  or  gone  ; 
The  manly  forms  around  him  there, 

As  children  he  had  known  ; 

He  pointed  to  the  spot 

Where  his  dwelling  used  to  be, 
Then  told  his  name,  and  smiling  said, 

"  You  now  remember  me  !" 

Alas  !  none  knew  him  there  ! 

He  pointed  to  a  stone, 
On  which  the  name  he  breathed  was  traced, 

A  name  to  them  unknown  ; 

And  then  the  old  man  wept, 

"  I  am  friendless  now,"  cried  he  ; 
"  Where  I  had  many  friends  in  youth, 

Not  one  remembers  me  !" 


MY  PRETTY  KATE. 

MY  pretty  Kate,  I  promise  thee, 

I  never  will  forget 
The  shaded  path  beneath  the  tree 

Where  we  so  oft  have  met ; 
We  wandered  till  the  stars  stole  forth, 

You  whispered  "  Love,  'tis  late," 
And  yet  I  lingered  still  to  breathe 

Farewell  to  pretty  Kate. 

My  pretty  Kate,  I  must  be  gone, — 

I  thank  you  for  the  tear, 
That  half  against  your  will  betrays 

You  wish  I'd  tarry  here  : 
It  may  not  be,  a  roving  life 

Hath  ever  been  my  fate, 
But  as  I  nightly  pace  the  deck, 

I'll  sigh  for  pretty  Kate. 

My  pretty  Kate,  too  well  I  know 

You  will  forget  your  grief, 
Before  yon  barren  winter  bough 

Assumes  its  summer  leaf: 
Ah  !  could  I  hope,  when  lovers  come, 

For  me  you  still  would  wait, 
I'd  brave  the  battle  and  the  storm, 

And  live  for  pretty  Kate. 


54 


THE  GIPSY'S  MYSTERY. 

SHALL  I  tell  the  gipsy's  mystery, 

And  the  secret  of  her  skill, 
The  spell  by  which  her  eye  explores 

All  future  good  or  ill  ? 
It  is  not  written  in  the  hand 

On  which  she  seems  to  look, 
She  caught  a  glimpse  of  your  sweet  face, 

And  that  hath  been  her  book. 

You  seem  to  wonder  when  she  counts 

The  conquests  you  have  made  : 
But  that  is  nought,  the  future  proves 

The  triumph  of  her  trade. 
She  prattles  of  your  past  career, 

Can  that  excite  surprise  ? 
The  dullest  gipsy  girl  may  read 

Your  conquests  in  your  eyes. 

She  tells  you  too  of  future  years  ; 

I  deem  her  art  a  jest  ; 
She  speaks  of  lovers,  and  of  one 

More  happy  than  the  rest. 
Beloved  by  all,  you'll  love  but  one  ; 

There,  I'm  prophetic  too  ; 
Your  beauty  first  will  win  his  love, 

Your  virtue  keep  him  true. 


55 


IT  IS  NOT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

IT  is  not  on  the  battle-field 

That  I  would  wish  to  die ; 
It  is  not  on  a  broken  shield 

I'd  breathe  my  latest  sigh. 
And  though  a  soldier  knows  not  how 

To  dread  a  soldier's  doom  ; 
I  ask  no  laurel  for  my  brow, 

No  trophy  for  my  tomb. 

It  is  not  that  I  scorn  the  wreath 

A  soldier  proudly  wears  ; 
It  is  not  that  I  fear  the  death 

A  soldier  proudly  dares  ; 
When  slaughtered  comrades  round  me  lie, 

I'd  be  the  last  to  yield  ; 
But  yet  I  would  not  wish  to  die 

Upon  the  battle-field. 

When  faint  and  bleeding  in  the  fray, 

Oh  !  still  let  me  retain 
Enough  of  life  to  crawl  away, 

To  this  sweet  vale  again  ; 
For  Hke  the  wounded  weary  dove, 

That  flutters  to  its  nest, 
I  fain  would  reach  my  own  dear  love, 

And  die  upon  her  breast. 


56 


OH  NO !  WE  NEVER  MENTION  HER. 

OH,  no  !  we  never  mention  her  ; 

Her  name  is  never  heard  ; 
My  lips  are  now  forbid  to  speak 

That  once  familiar  word. 
From  sport  to  sport  they  hurry  me, 

To  banish  my  regret ; 
And  when  they  win  a  smile  from  me, 

They  think  that  I  forget. 

They  bid  me  seek  in  change  of  scene 

The  charms  that  others  see ; 
But  were  I  in  a  foreign  land, 

They'd  find  no  change  in  me. 
'Tis  true  that  I  behold  no  more 

The  valley  where  we  met ; 
I  do  not  see  the  hawthorn  tree — 

But  how  can  I  forget ! 

They  tell  me  she  is  happy  now — 

The  gayest  of  the  gay; 
They  hint  that  she  forgets  me  now, 

But  heed  not  what  they  say  ; 
Like  me  perhaps  she  struggles  with 

Each  feeling  of  regret ; 
But  if  she  loves,  as  I  have  loved, 

She  never  can  forget. 


57 


THEY  WEEP  WHEN  I  HAVE  NAMED  HER ! 

THEY  weep  when  I  have  named  her ! 

I'm  sure  she  was  more  dear 
To  ME  than  all  the  world  beside, 

And  yet  I  shed  no  tear ; 
I  culled  the  freshest  roses, 

And  twined  them  for  her  hair, 
And  then  I  sought  her  chamber — 

But  oh  !  she  is  not  there  ! 

They  tell  me  I  have  lost  her ; 

I  smile  to  see  them  mourn  : 
She  COULD  not  thus  desert  me — 

I  know  she  will  return ; 
And  I  have  decked  her  bower 

With  all  my  former  care, 
And  now  I  came  to  seek  her — 

But  oh  !  she  is  not  there  ! 

I  saw  them  kneel  in  silence 

Beneath  a  yew-tree's  gloom, 
They  pointed  to  the  name  I  loved 

Upon  a  marble  tomb, 
And  THEN  I  wept — but  something 

Forbade  me  to  despair, 
I  felt  that  we  should  meet  again — 

For  oh  !  she  is  not  there  ! 


58 


WELCOME  ME  HOME. 

GAILY  the  Troubadour 

Touched  his  guitar, 
When  he  was  hastening 

Home  from  the  war ; 
Singing  "  From  Palestine 

Hither  I  come, 
Ladye  love  !  ladye  love  ! 

Welcome  me  home." 

She  for  the  Troubadour 

Hopelessly  wept, 
Sadly  she  thought  of  him, 

When  others  slept : 
Singing  "  In  search  of  thee 

Would  I  might  roam, 
Troubadour  !  Troubadour  ! 

Come  to  thy  home." 

Hark  !  'twas  the  Troubadour 

Breathing  her  name, 
Under  the  battlement 

Softly  he  came, 
Singing  "  From  Palestine 

Hither  I  come, 
Ladye  love  !  ladye  love  ! 

Welcome  me  home." 


59 


I'M  SADDEST  WHEN  I  SING. 

You  think  I  have  a  merry  heart, 

Because  my  songs  are  gay; 
But,  oh  !  they  all  were  taught  to  me 

By  friends  now  far  away; 
The  bird  retains  his  silver  note, 

Though  bondage  chains  his  wing ; 
His  song  is  not  a  happy  one, — 

I'm  saddest  when  I  sing ! 

I  heard  them  first  in  that  sweet  home 

I  never  more  shall  see, 
And  now  each  song  of  joy  has  got 

A  plaintive  turn  for  me  ! 
Alas  !  'tis  vain  in  winter  time 

To  mock  the  songs  of  spring, 
Each  note  recalls  some  withered  leaf,- 

I'm  saddest  when  I  sing ! 

Of  all  the  friends  I  used  to  love, 

My  harp  remains  alone, 
Its  faithful  voice  still  seems  to  be 

An  echo  of  my  own  : 
My  tears  when  I  bend  over  it, 

Will  fall  upon  its  string, 
Yet  those  who  hear  me,  little  think 

I'm  saddest  when  I  sing  ! 


60 


'TWILL  REMIND  YOU  OF  ME. 

'TwiLL  remind  you  of  me — though  the  token 

Is  neither  of  silver  or  gold, 
'Twill  remind  you  of  words  we  have  spoken, 

How  fond  must  now  never  be  told ; 
Of  the  days  when  I  thought  your  affection 

Like  mine,  everlasting  would  be ; 
Yet,  though  you  may  fly  from  reflection, 

That  still  must  remind  you  of  me  ! 

'Twill  remind  you  of  me — though  you  shun  it, 

And  throw  it  aside  with  disdain, 
You  will  one  day  look  sadly  upon  it, 

And  sigh  for  your  first-love  again ; 
THAT  GIFT  will  be  seen  among  many, 

And  mine  the  least  worthy  may  be, 
And  yet,  perchance,  dearer  than  any, 
.  Because  'twill  remind  you  of  me ! 

'Twill  remind  you  of  me — when  I'm  sleeping 

Far  off  where  my  forefathers  sleep ; 
When  past  is  MY  season  of  weeping, 

It  grieves  me  to  think  YOU  will  weep  ; 
You  will  press  to  your  heart  the  last  token 

Of  one  you  can  never  more  see ; 
'Twill  remind  you  of  vows  you  have  broken, 

Ah !  yes,  'twill  remind  you  of  me  ! 


61 


OH !   WHERE  DO  FAIRIES  HIDE  THEIR  HEADS  t 

OH  !  where  do  fairies  hide  their  heads, 

When  snow  lies  on  the  hills  ? 
When  frost  has  spoiled  their  mossy  beds, 

And  crystallized  their  rills  : 
Beneath  the  moon  they  cannot  trip 

In  circles  o'er  the  plain  : 
And  draughts  of  dew  they  cannot  sip, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 

Perhaps  in  small  blue  diving-bells, 

They  plunge  beneath  the  waves  ; 
Inhabiting  the  wreathed  shells 

That  lie  in  coral  caves  ; 
Perhaps  in  red  Vesuvius 

Carousal  they  maintain  ; 
And  cheer  their  little  spirits  thus, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 

When  THEY  return,  there  will  be  mirth, 

And  music  in  the  air  ; 
And  fairy  rings  upon  the  earth, 

And  mischief  every  where  ; 
The  maids  to  keep  the  elves  aloof, 

Will  bar  the  doors  in  vain  ; 
No  keyhole  will  be  fairy  proof, 

When  green  leaves  come  again. 


TOUJOURS  LE  MEME. 

"  TOUJOURS  le  meme"  was  engraved  on  the  token, 

The  ring  Rosa  gave  to  the  youth  she  preferred, 
Sadly  she  gazed  from  her  casement  heart-broken, 

And  waved  a  farewell,  but  she  spoke  not  a  word. 
He  sighed  adieu,  and  she  thought  sighed  sincerely, 

Whilst  fondly  he  cried,  "  Oh  !  forget  not  my  name, 
When  far,  far  away,  I  shall  love  thee  as  dearly, 

As  fondly,  faithfully,  Toujours  le  meme." 

When  he  was  gone,  for  a  time,  he  roved  blindly 

'Midst  beauties,  and  sighed  at  the  liveliest  ball ; 
But  when  fair  maids  on  his  sadness  looked  kindly, 

The  sad  one  had  smiles  to  bestow  on  them  all. 
If  on  the  past  the  gay  youth  e'er  reflected, 

New  pleasures  were  sought  to  drown  sorrow  and  shame 
Too  soon  he  forgot  Rosa's  smiles,  and  neglected 

Her  ring  and  its  motto  of — Toujours  le  meme. 

Rosa  was  sad  ;  for  a  time  she  persuaded 

Her  fond  heart,  that  chance  his  return  might  defer  ; 
But  when  the  hopes  she  had  cherished  all  faded, 

His  coldness,  his  falsehood  were  fatal  to  her. 
Ah  !  is  it  strange,  while  men  wildly  are  roving, 

Their  thoughts  and  their  vows  are  not  ever  the  same  ? 
Man  loves  again,  and  ne'er  suffers  from  loving, 

But  woman,  sweet  woman,  is  Toujours  le  meme. 


63 


IT  WAS  A  DREAM  OF  PERFECT  BLISS. 

IT  was  a  dream  of  perfect  bliss, 

Too  beautiful  to  last — 
I  seemed  to  welcome  back  again 

The  bright  days  of  the  past ! 
1  was  a  boy,  my  mimic  ship 

Sailed  down  the  village  stream, 
And  I  was  gay  and  innocent, 

But  ah  !  it  was  a  dream. 

And  soon  I  left  the  childish  toy 

For  those  of  manhood's  choice, 
The  beauty  of  a  woman's  form, 

The  sweetness  of  her  voice. 
I  thought  she  gave  me  blameless  love, 

The  nursling  of  esteem — 
And  that  such  love  I  merited, 

But  ah  !  it  was  a  dream. 

I  saw  my  falsehood  wound  her  heart, 

I  saw  her  cheek  grow  pale  ; 
But  o'er  her  fate  the  vision  threw 

A  bright  delusive  veil — 
I  thought  she  lived,  and  that  I  saw 

Our  bridal  torches  gleam  ; 
And  I  was  happy  with  my  bride, 

But  ah  !  it  was  a  dream. 


64 


WHY  COMES  HE  NOT? 

WHY  comes  he  not ? — why  comes  he  not? 

Oh  sister,  can  you  say  ? 
My  boy  and  I  have  watched  the  path 

Together  all  the  day. 
I'm  jealous  of  the  eager  child, 

I  fain  would  be  alone, 
That  his  first  coming  may  be  seen 

By  no  eye  save  my  own. 

He  comes — His  he — I  hear  his  steed, 

Ah,  would  he  were  in  sight ! 
You  think  I  am  deceived  !  But  hark, 

You  hear  him — I  was  right. 
Fool  that  I  was — had  I  gone  forth 

Beyond  that  shady  grove, 
I  might  already  have  beheld 

The  form  of  him  I  love. 

He  darts  like  lightning  from  the  trees, 

He  waves  his  hand  aloft ; 
Again  I  hear  those  words  of  love, 

That  I  have  heard  so  oft. 
I  envy  not  the  dame  whose  lord 

Is  never  forced  to  roam, 
She  never  knew  the  boundless  joy 

Of  such  a  welcome  home  ! 


65 


THE  MINSTREL, 

THERE  was  a  bard  in  feudal  times, 

A  peasant's  only  child, 
And  like  his  native  hills,  his  rhymes 

Were  beautiful  and  wild  ; 
His  rustic  harp,  of  maple  made, 

Though  simple  were  its  chords, 
Its  music  spoke,  whene'er  he  played, 

The  feeling  of  his  words. 

Soon  nobles,  lords  and  ladies,  came 

To  hear  the  minstrel's  lay, 
And  beauteous  damsels  breathed  his  name, 

The  idol  of  the  day  ; 
His  home  he  left,  he  threw  aside 

His  harp  so  dear  of  old, 
When  gained  in  halls  of  wealth  and  pride 

The  prize,  a  harp  of  gold. 

Now  forced  and  feeble  was  his  song, 

Unsteady  too  his  hand, — 
His  spirit  had  been  free  too  long 

To  own  a  lord's  command ; 
'Tis  nature  and  simplicity 

To  music  charms  impart, 
Their  strains  alone  in  minstrelsy 

Can  touch  the  feeling  heart. 
5 


66 


THE  COTTAGE  MAID. 

I  PASSED  a  cottage  garden, 

Where  two  young  lovers  strayed  ; 
He  was  a  youth  of  high  descent, 

And  she  a  cottage  maid : 
I  heard  the  vows  he  murmured, 

As  her  little  hand  he  prest, 
I  longed  to  say — Beware  !  beware  ! 

Such  love  is  seldom  blest. 

Again  I  passed  that  garden, 

And  the  maid  was  all  alone, 
I  heard  her  singing  at  her  work, 

But  in  a  plaintive  tone. 
She  waited  for  her  bridegroom, 

A  long  expected  guest ; 
I  pitied  her,  for  well  I  knew 

Such  love  is  seldom  blest. 

And  once  again  I  saw  her, 

How  bitterly  she  cried, — 
That  day  her  noble  lover  passed, 

And  with  a  noble  bride. 
She  knelt  where  first  I  saw  her, 

When  her  hand  he  fondly  prest, — 
A  broken  heart  is  thine  poor  girl, 

Such  love  is  seldom  blest. 


67 


THE  SELF-DEVOTED  NUN. 

WHEN  I  hear  the  vesper  bell, 

And  the  sisters  bend  the  knee, 
Breathing  prayers  for  all  the  world, 

In  my  heart  I  pray  for  thee  ; 
Yes,  for  thee  alone  I  pray, 

But  the  novice  they  would  blame, 
Did  they  know  that  in  her  cell 

She  had  dared  to  breathe  thy  name. 

I  have  spurned  thy  proffered  love, 

And  thy  presence  still  I  shun, 
I  am  blameless,  what  art  thou 

To  the  self-devoted  nun  ! 
Oh,  it  is  my  boast  to  dwell 

With  the  gay,  the  false,  the  free, 
And  'tis  therefore  on  my  knee 

That  I  still  must  pray  for  thee. 

We  shall  meet  no  more  on  earth, 

Thou  wilt  think  of  me  no  more, 
And  I'll  pray  that  we  may  meet 

When  this  transient  life  is  o'er ; 
When  this  world  has  lost  its  charm, 

May  it  soothe  thy  soul's  despair, 
To  remember  that  thy  name 

Has  been  hallowed  by  my  prayer. 


THE  DARK-EYED  GIPSY. 

DARK-EYED  gipsy,  come  not  hither 

To  unveil  my  future  doom  ; 
Tell  me  not  in  tranquil  weather 

Of  the  cloud  that  is  to  come  ; 
Though  e'en  now  the  sunbeam  leaves  me, 

Let  me  dream  that  it  will  last, 
Till  the  happy  future  gives  me 

Some  atonement  for  the  past. 

Tempt  me  not  with  happy  fictions, 

It  would  madden  me  to  hear ; 
Chill  me  not  with  dark  predictions, 

I  should  listen  with  a  tear ; 
Wave  no  wand  of  magic  o'er  me, 

Vaunt  not  of  your  mystic  skill ; 
Let  the  veil  that  lies  before  me 

Be  impenetrable  still. 

When  the  young  and  gay  are  near  you, 

Then  indulge  your  magic  mood  ; 
How  intently  will  they  hear  you, 

Credulous  of  all  that's  good  ! 
Boast  of  all  the  bliss  you've  brought  them, 

Give  imagination  scope ; 
Disappointment  hath  not  taught  them 

To  mistrust  the  dreams  of  hope. 


69 


MY  HEART  IS  OPPRESSED  TO-DAY. 

OH,  leave  me  to  my  sorrow, 

For  my  heart's  oppressed  to-day, 
Oh,  leave  me,  and  to-morrow 

Dark  shadows  may  pass  away. 
There's  a  time  when  all  that  grieves  us 

Is  felt  with  a  deeper  gloom ; 
There's  a  time  when  hope  deceives  us 

As  we  dream  of  days  to  come. 

In  winter  from  the  mountain 

The  stream  like  a  torrent  flows, 
In  summer  the  same  fountain 

Is  calm  as  a  child's  repose. 
In  grief  the  first  pangs  wound  us, 

And  tears  of  despair  gush  on, — 
Time  brings  new  flowers  around  us, 

And  the  tide  of  grief  is  gone. 

Then  heed  not  my  pensive  hours, 

Nor  bid  me  be  cheerful  now  ; 
Can  sunshine  raise  the  flowers 

That  droop  on  a  blighted  bough  ? 
The  lake  in  the  tempest  wears  not 

The  brightness  its  slumber  wore  ; 
The  heart  of  the  mourner  cares  not 

For  joys  that  were  dear  before. 


70 


THE  GRENADIER. 

CRIES  William,  when  just  come  from  sea, 

"  Does  any  one  know  my  Annette  ? 
Oh  say,  is  she  faithful  to  me? 

Alas  !  it  is  long  since  we  met." 
"  Yes,  yes,"  an  old  gossip  replies, 

"  We  all  know  her  very  well  here, — 
She  has  red  lips  and  bonny  black  eyes, 

And  she  lives  with  her  own  granny  dear !" 

Annette  flew  to  welcome  him  home, 

He  turned  from  the  maid  with  disdain, — 
"  False  girl,  I  suppose  you  are  come 

To  jeer  me  and  laugh  at  my  pain  : 
Since  scandal  hath  blotted  your  name, 

I  deem  you  unworthy  a  tear ; 
I've  been  told,  by  an  elderly  dame, 

That  you  live  with  your  own  grenadier  !" 

Quoth  pretty  Annette,  "  Do  you  dare 

To  call  me  inconstant  and  frail  ? 
Beware,  Master  William,  beware 

How  you  trump  up  an  old  woman's  tale : 
'Tis  true,  when  such  stories  are  told, 

We  should  not  believe  half  that  we  hear ; 
Yet  I  own  that  my  granny  is  old, 

And  I  live  with  my  own  granny  dear !" 


71 


THE  DESERTER. 

'Tis  the  dismal  beat  of  a  muffled  drum, 

A  crowd  on  the  rampart  gathers ; 
What  means  that  dirge  amid  prancing  steeds, 

Bright  armour  and  flaunting  feathers  ! 
In  the  martial  throng  ONE  warrior  kneels, 

With  no  warrior's  garb  upon  him, 
And  he  hides  his  face  with  his  folded  hands, 

For  his  old  companions  shun  him. 

The  deserter  shrinks  from  the  thought  of  death, 

But  it  is  not  a  coward's  terror, 
No,  fain  would  he  die  in  well-fought  field, 

To  blot  out  one  fatal  error ! 
Again  !  'tis  the  beat  of  the  muffled  drum, 

And  the  fatal  arms  are  ready, 
And  the  prisoner  waits  for  the  signal  word, 

With  an  aspect  calm  and  steady. 

They  have  bound  his  eyes  with  a  silken  fold, 

But  his  hands  again  displace  it  ; 
For  he  who  deserves  so  vile  a  doom, 

Hath  at  least  the  nerve  to  face  it  ; 
Shall  the  brand  of  dishonour  gall  the  heart, 

That  hath  sighed  for  the  wreath  of  glory  ? 
Shall  his  children  blush  for  their  father's  shame, 

When  they  hear  the  mournful  story  ? 


MY  HEART  IS  ALL  ALONE. 

I'M  standing  in  a  crowd, 

The  proudest  of  the  land  ; 
I  see  the  young  and  brave 

Are  in  King  Beauty's  hand  ; 
Fair  girls  are  by  my  side, 

They  move  to  music's  tone, 
I  see,  I  hear,  I  know  them — but 

My  heart  is  all  alone. 

I  look  around  for  thee, 

I  list  thy  voice  to  hear, 
No  sight,  no  sound  will  come  to  me, 

Oh  none  that's  half  so  dear ! 
I  ask  the  many  why 

And  whither  thou  art  flown, 
And  when  they  cannot  tell,  I  feel 

My  heart  is  all  alone. 

And  now  this  glad  bright  throng 

Has  little  charm  for  me, 
My  thoughts  are  borne  along 

As  barks  glide  o'er  the  sea  ; 
Away  from  hall  and  harp  and  dance, 

They  wander — all  thine  own — 
And  'mid  the  crowds  that  press  around, 

My  heart  is  all  alone. 


THE  ROSE  THAT  ALL  ARE  PRAISING. 

THE  rose  that  all  are  praising, 

Is  not  the  rose  for  me  ; 
Too  many  eyes  are  gazing 

Upon  the  costly  tree  ; 
But  there's  a  rose  in  yonder  glen, 
That  shuns  the  gaze  of  other  men, 
For  me  its  blossom  raising, — 
Oh  !  that's  the  rose  for  me. 

The  gem  a  king  might  covet, 

Is  not  the  gem  for  me ; 
From  darkness  who  would  move  it, 

Save  that  the  world  may  see  ? 
But  I've  a  gem  that  shuns  display, 
And  next  rnj  heart  worn  every  day, 
So  dearly  do  I  love  it, — 
Oh  !  that's  the  gem  for  me. 

Gay  birds  in  cages  pining, 

Are  not  the  birds  for  me ; 
Those  plumes  so  brightly  shining, 

Would  fain  fly  off  from  thee : 
But  I've  a  bird  that  gaily  sings  ; 
Though  free  to  rove,  she  folds  her  wings, 
For  me  her  flight  resigning, — 
Oh  !  that's  the  bird  for  me. 


74 


THOUGH  THE  SUMMER  MAY  HAVE  ROSES. 

THOUGH  the  summer  may  have  roses 

That  outshine  the  buds  of  spring, 
Deeper  shadows  in  the  forest, 

Blither  birds  upon  the  wing  ; 
When  I  see  a  bright  May  morning, 

After  long,  long  days  of  gloom, 
Summer  seems  to  sport  around  me, 

In  his  infancy  of  bloom. 

Oh  !  'tis  sad  to  see  the  splendour 

Of  the  summer  pass  away, 
When  the  night  is  always  stealing 

Precious  moments  from  the  day: 
But  in  spring  each  lengthened  evening 

Tempts  us  farther  off  from  home, 
And  if  summer  has  more  beauty, 

All  that  beauty  is  to  come. 

4g£ 

It  is  thus,  in  manhood's  summer, 

That  the  heart  too  often  grieves 
Over  friends  lost  prematurely, 

Like  the  fall  of  blighted  leaves  ; 
But  life's  spring-time  is  far  sweeter, 

When  each  green  bud  that  appears 
May  expand  into  a  blossom, 

To  enliven  future  years. 


75 


THE  DESERT  ISLE. 

ANOTHER  day  is  closing, 

And  there's  no  sail  in  sight, 
I  dread  the  coming  shadows 

Of  hopeless,  sleepless  night ; 
No  wife  will  watch  my  slumbers, 

No  friend  my  name  will  bless, 
No  children  throng  around  me, 

To  sue  for  a  caress. 

When  darkness  veils  the  ocean, 

I  kindle  yonder  pile ; 
But  no  eye  marks  the  beacon, 

No  stranger  seeks  the  isle. 
Alas  !  my  weak  hand  trembles, 

When  thus  I  try  once  more, 
That  chance  of  preservation 

Which  failed  so  oft  before. 

Yet  once  again  it  blazes, 

Reflected  in  the  deep, 
Ah  !  would  those  flames  could  waken 

My  loved  ones  where  they  sleep  ; 
But  'twill  not  guide  them  hither, 

My  beacon  burns  in  vain, 
And  I  shall  never  listen 

To  words  of  love  again. 


76 


SIGH  NOT  FOR  SUMMER  FLOWERS. 

SIGH  not  for  summer  flowers, 
What  though  the  dark  sky  lowers, 
Welcome  ye  wintry  hours, — 

Our  sunshine  is  within. 
Though  to  the  west  retreating, 
Daylight  so  soon  is  fleeting, 
Now  happy  friends  are  meeting, 

And  now  their  sports  begin. 

Leaves,  that  our  path  once  shaded, 
Now  lie  around  us  faded, 
Groves,  where  we  serenaded, 

Are  desolate  and  chill. 
Nature  awhile  reposes, 
Art  his  gay  realm  uncloses, 
Beauty  displays  her  roses, 

And  we  are  happy  still ! 

Round  us  'tis  deeply  snowing, 
Hark  !  the  loud  tempest  blowing  ! 
See  !  the  dark  torrent  flowing  ! 

How  wild  the  skies  appear ! 
But  can  the  whirlwind  move  us  1 
No  !  with  this  roof  above  us, 
Near  to  the  friends  that  love  us, 

We  still  have  sunshine  here. 


77 


I  TURN  TO  THEE  IN  TIME  OF  NEED. 

I  TURN  to  thee  in  time  of  need, 

And  never  turn  in  vain  ; 
I  see  thy  fond  and  fearless  smile, 

And  hope  revives  again. 
It  gives  me  strength  to  struggle  on, 

Whate'er  the  strife  may  be ; 
And  if  again  my  courage  fail, 

Again  I  turn  to  thee. 

Thy  timid  beauty  charmed  me  first ; 

I  breathed  a  lover's  vow, 
But,  little  thought  to  find  the  friend 

Whose  strength  sustains  me  now ; 
I  deemed  thee  made  for  summer  skies, 

But  in  the  stormy  sea, 
Deserted  by  all  former  friends, 

Dear  love,  I  turn  to  thee. 

Should  e'er  some  keener  sorrow  throw 

A  shadow  o'er  my  mind ; 
And  should  I,  thoughtless,  breathe  to  thee, 

One  word  that  is  unkind ; 
Forgive  it,  love  !  thy  smile  will  set 

My  better  feelings  free  ; 
And  with  a  look  of  boundless  love, 

I  still  shall  turn  to  thee. 


78 


OH,  DARK-EYED  MAID  OF  PALESTINE  ! 

OH,  dark-eyed  maid  of  Palestine, 

Though  thou  hast  set  me  free. 
Mistake  me  not,  I  cannot  breathe 

Affection's  vow  to  thee. 
The  love  that  I  can  never  feel 

My  lips  would  scorn  to  feign, 
Then  summon  forth  thy  father's  guard, 

And  give  me  back  my  chain. 

Far  in  a  land  thou  ne'er  wilt  view, 

I  left  a  gentle  bride, 
I  know  that  in  my  plighted  vow 

Her  fond  heart  will  confide : 
She  may  be  told  that  far  away 

Her  captive  love  was  slain  ; 
She  shall  not  hear  that  I  was  false — 

Then  give  me  back  my  chain. 

I  see  a  tear  steal  o'er  thy  cheek, 

My  sentence  I  await  ; 
But  now  thy  trembling  finger  points 

To  yonder  open  gate  ! 
Dark  maid  of  Palestine,  I  seek 

My  plighted  bride  again, — 
And  when  we  cease  to  pray  for  thee. 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  chain  ! 


79 


OH  !  COME  TO  ME. 

OH  !  come  to  me,  and  bring  with  thee 

The  sunny  smiles  of  former  years ; 
If  smiles  so  bright  will  lend  their  light 

To  cheer  a  brow  long  used  to  tears  : 
I  will  not  let  one  sad  regret, 

One  gloomy  thought,  our  meeting  chill ; 
But  for  thy  sake,  I'll  strive  to  make 

This  altered  cheek  look  cheerful  still. 
But  if  the  gloom  of  life  is  come, 

If  smiles  have  now  forsaken  thee ; 
Then  let.  not  pride  attempt  to  hide 

The  dreary  change — but  come  to  me  ! 

If  thou  art  gay,  I  will  not  say 

One  gloomy  word  to  cause  a  tear ; 
If  thou  art  sad,  I'll  wish  I  had 

A  brighter  home  for  one  so  dear. 
Then  come  to  me,  our  theme  shall  be 

The  friends  we  love — not  those  we  mourn  ; 
We'll  not  destroy  a  present  joy, 

Lamenting  joys  that  ne'er  return  ; 
The  ardent  rays  of  early  days, 

And  boyhood's  bloom,  we  ne'er  may  see  ; 
But  days  of  bright  and  pure  delight 

May  be  in  store, — then  come  to  me. 


80 


SONG  OF  THE  FAY. 

OH  !  where  have  you  been,  sweet  sister  Fay? 

I  have  slept  in  the  lily,  all  the  long  day, 

And  many  an  insect  came  to  look 

For  the  honey  that  lay  in  my  fragrant  nook. 

I  was  armed  with  a  spear  from  a  hawthorn  spray, 

And  afraid  of  its  point  they  all  fluttered  away, 

So  I  sung  my  own  lullaby,  sleeping  at  ease, 

In  the  bell  of  a  lily  that  waved  in  the  breeze ! 

The  day  is  for  labour,  the  night  is  for  glee, — 

Come,  brother,  trip  lightly  with  me, 

Come,  sister,  trip  lightly  with  me, — 

Come,  brother,  come,  sister,  trip  lightly  with  me ! 

Where  are  you  going,  sweet  sister  Fay? 
To  the  turf  that  is  greenest  Pm  tripping  away. 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  sweet  music  of  midnight  I  hear, 
The  holly  leaves  rustle,  we've  startled  a  deer ; 
The  rivulets,  gushing  through  coral  caves, 
At  intervals  drip  in  the  dark  blue  waves : 
I've  jewelled  my  hair  and  I've  spangled  my  wing, 
For  I'm  going  to  dance  at  the  court  of  the  king ! 
The  day  is  for  labour,  the  night  is  for  glee, — 
Come,  brother,  trip  lightly  with  me, 
Come,  sister,  trip  lightly  with  me, — 
Come,  sister,  come,  brother,  trip  lightly  with  me. 


81 


HE  CAME  AT  MORN. 

HE  came  at  morn  to  the  lady's  bower — 
He  sang,  and  played  till  the  noontide  hour  ;- 
He  sang  of  war — he  sang  of  love, 
Of  battle-field,  and  peaceful  grove : 
The  lady  could  have  stayed  all  day, 
To  hear  that  gentle  minstrel  play  ; 
And  when  she  saw  the  minstrel  go, 
The  lady's  tears  began  to  flow. 

At  mid-day,  with  her  page  she  went 
To  grace  a  splendid  tournament  ; 
And  there  she  saw  an  armed  knight, 
With  golden  helm  and  plumage  white; 
With  grace  he  rode  his  sable  steed, — 
And  after  many  a  martial  deed, 
He  knelt  to  her  with  words  most  sweet, 
And  laid  his  trophies  at  her  feet. 

At  night,  in  robes  both  rich  and  rare, 
With  jewels  sparkling  in  her  hair, 
She  sought  the  dance,  and  smiling  came 
A  youthful  prince,  and  breathed  her  name  ; 
He  sang — it  was  the  minstrel's  strain  ! 
He  knelt — she  saw  the  knight  again  ? 
With  lovers  three — how  blest  to  find 
The  charms  of  all  in  one  combined ! 
6 


82 


THE  DESERTED  BRIDE. 

AM  I  then  so  soon  deserted  ? 

Is  my  boasted  beauty  gone  ? 
Was  I  sought,  and  was  I  courted 

For  my  gold  alone  ? 
Ah  !  dear  girls,  my  grief  behold  ! 

Love  will  not  be  bought  with  gold. 

In  my  home  the  lover  found  me, 

Then  these  eyes  had  ne'er  been  dim, 

Many  friends  were  smiling  round  me, 
Yet  I  welcomed  him  ! 

Oh  !  how  could  you  change  such  bliss, 
False  one,  to  a  doom  like  this  ? 

Yet  I  loved  you,  and  I  swerve  not 
From  the  love  I  once  profess : 

Though  such  duty  you  deserve  not, 
I'll  not  love  you  less  : 

No,  I  came  with  my  free  will, 
And,  alas  !  I  love  you  still. 

Take  my  gold,  ah  !  could  I  weave  it 
Into  love's  own  precious  chain, 

Trust  me,  I  would  freely  give  it, 
Were  it  mine  again  : 

Faithful  love  forgets  its  pride, 
Come  to  your  deserted  bride. 


83 


OF  WHAT  IS  THE  OLD  MAN  THINKING? 

OF  what  is  the  old  man  thinking, 

As  he  leans  on  his  oaken  staff? 
From  the  May-day  pastime  shrinking, 

He  shares  not  the  merry  laugh. 
But  the  tears  of  the  old  man  flow, 

As  he  looks  on  the  young  and  gay  ; 
And  his  gray  head,  moving  slow, 

Keeps  time  to  the  air  they  play. 
The  elders  around  are  drinking, 

But  not  one  cup  will  he  quaff  ; 
Oh  of  what  is  the  old  man  thinking, 

As  he  leans  on  his  oaken  staff? 

^* 

'Tis  not  with  a  vain  repining 

That  the  old  man  sheds  a  tear, 
'Tis  not  for  his  strength  declining  — 

He  sighs  not  to  linger  here. 
There's  a  spell  in  the  air  they  play, 

And  the  old  man's  eyes  are  dim, 
For  it  calls  up  a  past  May-day, 

And  the  dear  friends  lost  to  him. 
From  the  scene  before  him  shrinking, 

From  the  dance  and  the  merry  laugh, 
Of  their  calm  repose  he  is  thinking, 

As  he  leans  on  his  oaken  staff. 


84 


TO  LINGER  NEAR  THEE. 

To  linger  near  thee,  to  see  and  hear  thee, 

Shall  be  for  ever  my  prayer ; 
Those  eyes  enchant  me,  oh  !  lady,  grant  me 

One  smile  to  banish  despair. 
With  thee  I'll  wander,  still  growing  fonder, 

Thy  willing  captive  I'll  prove ; 
Though  once  a  rover,  all  that  is  over, 

For  thou  hast  taught  me  to  love. 
Thy  voice  I'm  sure,  dear,  is  soft  and  pure,  dear, 

Then  let  my  song  be  thy  choice  ; 
Don't  pause  a  minute,  at  once  begin  it, 

Oh !  how  I  long  to  hear  thy  voice. 

Nay,  why  so  chilling?  why  thus  unwilling 

To  give  me  pleasure  1  Dearest  sing  ; 
Content  I'll  stay,  dear,  the  livelong  day,  dear, 

Take  my  guitar  and  touch  the  string  ; 
A  bright  eye  charms  me,  and  beauty  warms  me, 

These  without  music  weary  soon  ; 
Venus  to  me,  love,  a  fright  would  be,  love, 

If  I  heard  her  sing  out  of  tune. 
Thy  voice  I'm  sure,  dear,  is  soft  and  pure,  dear, 

Then  let  my  song  be  thy  choice — 
Don't  pause  a  minute,  at  once  begin  it — 

Oh  !  how  I  long  to  hear  thy  voice. 


85 


IN  HAPPIER  HOURS. 

IN  happier  hours,  my  pleasure  all  day, 

Was  to  rove  with  the  thoughtless  or  dance  with  the  gay  ; 

Through  life  as  I  sported  no  clouds  could  I  see, 

And  the  hearts  that  were  gayest  were  dearest  to  me ; 

But  now  in  affliction  how  changed  is  the  view, 

Though  gay  hearts  are  many,  sincere  ones  are  few. 

Though  some  come  around  us  to  laugh  and  to  jest, 
In  sickness  or  sorrow  they  shrink  from  the  test ; 
Their  love  and  their  friendship  endure  for  awhile — 
When  Fortune  is  smiling,  they  also  can  smile : 
Like  blossoms  that  wither  when  daylight  is  gone, 
And  lose  all  their  sweetness  when  out  of  the  sun. 

But  thou  in  my  sorrow  still  faithfully  came, 
And  though  I  am  altered  I  find  thee  the  same : 
Whene'er  you  come  near  me,  no  pleasure  you  find, 
But  always  leave  something  like  pleasure  behind ; 
Like  the  Night-blooming  Ceres  which  sheds  its  perfume, 
And  opens  its  blossoms  'midst  darkness  and  gloom. 


86 


DEARER  THAN  LIFE  THOU  ART ! 

DEARER  than  life  thou  art,  can  I  say  more  ? 
True,  I  have  told  thee  so  often  before  ; 
But  of  thy  apathy  still  I  complain, 
Therefore  I  tell  it  thee  over  again, 
Thou  wert  my  hope  'mid  the  perils  of  war, 
Dearer  than  life  thou  art — dearer  by  far. 

Some  may  have  eloquent  lips,  I  confess, 

Accents  more  studied  their  feelings  express ; 

But  not  a  lover  before  thee  has  knelt, 

Feeling  one  half  of  the  love  I  have  felt ; 

Dear  thou  art  still  though  my  bliss  thou  may'st  mar, 

Dearer  than  life  thou  art — dearer  by  far. 

If  thou  art  won  by  gay  lovers  like  these, 
Still  thou  shalt  find  me  endeavour  to  please  ; 
Woo  thee  in  accents  as  proud  as  their  own, 
Tell  thee  thy  graces  would  honour  a  throne ; 
Call  thee  my  rosebud,  my  diamond,  my  star, 
Dearer  than  life  thou  art — dearer  by  far. 


87 


HOME  OF  MY  YOUTH. 

SCENE  of  my  pleasure,  scene  of  my  pain, 
Home  of  my  fathers,  I  leave  thee  again ! 

Sunshine  and  flowers 

Dwell  in  thy  bowers^ 

Peace  in  thy  towers, 

Home  of  my  youth ! 

In  the  parched  desert  I'll  sigh  for  thy  rills, 
Gushing  so  brightly  from  ever  green  hills  ; 

Sunshine  and  flowers 

Dwell  in  thy  bowers, 

Peace  in  thy  towers, 

Home  of  my  youth  ! 

Wounded,  or  wearing  the  Saracen's  chain, 
Thee  will  I  pray  for  again  and  again  ! 

Sunshine  and  flowers 

Dwell  in  thy  bowers, 

Peace  in  thy  towers, 

Home  of  my  youth ! 


88 


SHE  WOULD  NOT  KNOW  ME. 


SHE  would  not  know  me  were  she  now  to  view  me ; 
My  heart  was  gay,  when  long  ago  she  knew  me ; 
My  songs  were  daily  tuned  to  some  gay  measure, 
And  all  my  visions  were  of  future  pleasure  ; 
Oh !  tell  her  not  that  grief  could  thus  o'erthrow  me, 
But  let  her  pass  me  by — she  will  not  know  me. 

In  these  sad  accents  she  will  ne'er  discover 
The  cheerful  voice  of  him  who  was  her  lover ; 
Nor  will  these  features  in  their  gloom  remind  her 
Of  the  gay  smile  they  wore  when  she  was  kinder : 
Oh !  tell  her  not  that  grief  could  thus  o'erthrow  me, 
But  let  her  pass  me  by — she  will  not  know  me. 

Twould  pain  her,  did  she  note  my  deep  dejection, 
To  know  that  she  had  crushed  such  fond  affection  : 
And  not  for  all  the  world  shall  my  distresses 
Chase  from  her  heart  the  joy  it  still  possesses  ; 
Oh  !  tell  her  not  that  grief  could  thus  o'erthrow  me, 
But  let  her  pass  me  by  she  will  not  know  me. 


89 


OUR  EARLY  DAYS. 


our  lot  in  life  may  be, 

Sweet  early  days,  we  turn  to  you ; 
The  friends  who  won  our  youthful  love, 

Are  dearer  far  than  ties  more^ew : 
Though  fortune,  when  those  friends  depart, 

May  lead  us  on  through  flowery  ways, 
We  miss  the  sunshine  of  the  heart, 

That  sheds  a  light  o'er  early  days. 

Oh  !  what  must  be  endured  by  those 

Whose  hopes  are  blighted  ere  they  bloom — 
Who  see  false  friends  becoming  foes, 

Fast  as  life's  gladness  fades  to  gloom  ! 
More  fondly  to  the  blissful  past, 

They  turn  when  present  bliss  decays  ; 
And  fading  memory  loses  last, 

Her  deep  regret  for  early  days. 


90 


LISTEN,  DEAR  FANNY  ? 

LISTEN,  dear  Fanny,  oh  !  listen  to  me, 
Thy  soldier  lad  offers  his  love  song  to  thee. 

Listen  to  me, 

Thy  soldier  lad  offers  his  love  song  to  thee ; 
He  throws  by  his  sword  and  each  token  of  war, 
And  wanders  by  night  with  his  peaceful  guitar. 
Listen,  dear  Fanny,  oh  !  listen  to  me, 
Thy  soldier  lad  offers  his  love  song  to  thee. 

Listen,  dear  Fanny,  though  many  there  be, 
Professing  to  love  thee, — none  love  thee  like  me. 

Many  there  be, 

Professing  to  love  thee, — none  love  thee  like  me, 
Beware  of  the  jealous,  oh,  lady  !  beware, 
Their  green  eyes  seek  falsehood  in  all  that  is  fair ! 
Listen,  dear  Fanny,  oh,  listen  to  me, 
Thy  soldier  lad  offers  his  love  song  to  thee. 


91 


WHAT  SHALL  BE  MY  THEME  ? 

WHAT  shall  be  my  theme, 

When  I  sing  to  thee, 
Sitting  by  the  village  stream, 

Under  the  chestnut  tree  1 
Tell  me,  wilt  thou  choose 

A  gay  or  mournful  string  1 
Shall  love  or  war  inspire  my  muse  ? 

Say,  what  shall  I  sing  ? 

I'll  not  sing  of  war, — 

Such  a  theme  would  be 
Much  too  sad — a  gentle  star 

Watches  over  thee : 
Let  me  hear  thy  voice, 

And  touch  thy  own  lute's  string ; — 
And  whate'er  shall  be  thy  choice, 

That  song  will  I  sing. 


92 


OH  SAY  NOT  'TWERE  A  KEENER  BLOW. 

OH  say  not  'twere  a  keener  blow, 

To  lose  a  child  of  riper  years, 
You  cannot  know  a  father's  wo — 

You  cannot  dry  a  father's  tears  ; 
The  girl  who  rears  a  sickly  plant, 

Or  cherishes  a  wounded  dove, 
Will  love  them  most  while  most  they  want 

The  watchfulness  of  love  ! 

Time  must  have  changed  that  fair  young  brow, 

Time  might  have  changed  that  spotless  heart  ; 
Years  might  have  brought  deceit, — but  now 

In  love's  confiding  dawn  we  part ! 
Ere  pain  and  grief  had  sown  decay, 

My  babe  is  cradled  in  the  tomb, — 
Like  some  fair  blossom  torn  away 

In  all  its  purest  bloom. 


GO,  AND  FORGET  THAT  WE  HAVE  MET. 

t+ 

Go,  and  forget  that  we  have  met, 

Go  to  the  friends  dearest  to  thee  ;  ** 
Loved. as  thou  art,  freely  depart, 

When  far  away  think  not  of  me. 
Others  more  fair  will  receive  thee  ; 

Garlands  like  mine  they  will  weave  thee  ; 
Smile  and  deceive,  they  will  believe, 

E'en  as  I  used  to  believe  thee. 

Though  my  tears  flow  bidding  thee  go, 

More  should  I  weep  wert  thou  to  stay; 
Better  at  once  all  hope  renounce, 

Than  see  thee  change  day  after  day. 
Go — I  will  never  accuse  thee  ; 

Seek  her  whose  smile  will  amuse  thee  ; 
She  in  her  turn  too  soon  may  learn 

What  I  endure  thus  to  lose  thee. 


94 


THE  VOWS  OF  MEN. 

WRITE  on  the  sand  when  the  tide  is  low ; 
Seek  the  spot  when  the  waters  flow; 
Whisper  a  name  when  the  storm  is  heard  ; 
Pause  that  the  echo  may  catch  the  word  ; 
If  that  you  wrote  on  the  sand  should  last— 
If  echo  is  heard  'mid  the  tempest's  blast, 
Then  believe,  and  not  till  then, 
That  there's  truth  in  the  vows  of  men. 

Throw  a  rose  on  the  stream  at  morn  ; 
Watch  at  eve  for  the  flower's  return  ; 
Drop  in  the  ocean  a  golden  grain ; 
Hope  'twill  shine  on  the  shore  again  ; 
If  the  rose  you  again  behold — 
If  ypu  gaze  on  your  grain  of  gold, 
Then  believe,  and  not  till  then, 
There  is  truth  in  the  vows  of  men. 


95 


WOMAN'S  COURAGE. 

THE  manly  lover  by  his  young  beloved, 

Stands  shelterless  amid  the  raging  storm  ; 
Shall  not  his  dauntless  spirit  now  be  proved, 

While  she  clings  trembling  to  his  sterner  form  ? 
Their  hands  are  closely  clasped,  but  she  is  brave — 

The  grasp  that  is  uncertain  is  his  own  ! 
He  views  the  fatal  flash,  the  whelming  wave, 

Fearful  with  her,  though  fearless  when  alone. 

For  her,  what  is  there  that  he  would  not  dare  ? 

With  her,  he  shudders  at  the  thunder-peal  ! 
And  she,  lest  one  beloved  her  grief  should  share, 

Assumes  a  courage  that  she  cannot  feel. 
But  woman  has  a  courage  of  her  own  : 

For  her  the  plague-struck  chamber  has  no  fears ; 
She  cheers  the  dying,  and,  till  life  is  gone, 

Denies  herself  the  luxury  of  tears  ! 


96 


THE  OLD  KIRK  YARD. 

OH  !  come,  come  with  me,  to  the  old  kirk  yard, 
I  well  know  the  path  through  the  soft  green  sward ; 
Friends  slumber  there  we  were  wont  to  regard, 
We'll  trace  out  their  names  in  the  old  kirk  yard. 
Oh  !  mourn  not  for  them,  their  grief  is  o'er, 
Oh  !  weep  not  for  them,  they  weep  no  more, 
For  deep  is  their  sleep,  though  cold  and  hard 
Their  pillow  may  be  in  the  old  kirk  yard. 

I  know  it  is  in  vain  when  friends  depart, 

To  breathe  kind  words  to  a  broken  heart ; 

I  know  that  the  joy  of  life  seems  marred 

When  we  follow  them  home  to  the  old  kirk  yard. 

But  were  I  at  rest  beneath  yon  tree, 

Why  should'st  thou  weep,  dear  love,  for  me ; 

I'm  wayworn  and  sad,  ah  !  why  then  retard 

The  rest  that  I  seek  in  the  old  kirk  yard. 


97 


WHEN  WE  AND  CARE  WERE  STRANGERS, 

You  were  not  made  to  sail  with  me, 

Where  my  poor  bark  is  driven ; 
You  should  have  had  a  tranquil  sea, 

Beneath  a  cloudless  heaven  ; 
Yet  still  I  see  thee  brave  the  worst, 

Still  disregarding  dangers — 
And  fond  as  when  I  wooed  thee  first, 

When  we  and  care  were  strangers. 

Ah  !  fervent  is  my  secret  prayer, 

Some  haven  to  discover  ; 
That  you  and  I  may  shelter  there, 

Our  stormy  trials  over  ; 
And  gazing  on  a  peaceful  scene, 

We'll  talk  of  former  dangers — 
As  happy  as  we  could  have  been, 

When  we  and  care  were  strangers. 


98 

f 
HARK !  HARK !  I  HEAR  A  DISTANT  DRUM. 

HARK  !  hark  !  I  hear  a  distant  drum  ; — 
The  tramp  of  steeds, — they  come  !  they  come  ! 
With  weapons  bright  and  banners  gay, 
They  pass  along  in  proud  array; 
We  view  the  pomp  of  war  alone, 

Its  gloom  is  gone : 

And  sweet  to-night  their  dreams  will  be 
Of  love,  and  joy,  and  victory. 

But  yon  fair  girl,  in  mute  despair, 
Looks  round  for  one — who  is  not  there ; 
She  watches  then  till  all  are  past, 
And  scarce  believes  she  sees  the  last ; 
She  lingers  still — yet  all  are  gone — 
She  stands  alone  ! 

Her  Edward  comes  not, — where  is  he  ? 
Alas  !  can  this  be  victory? 


99 


THE  LAST  GREEN  LEAF. 

THE  last  green  leaf  hangs  lonely  now, 
Its  summer  friends  have  left  the  bough  ; 
Yet  though  they  withered  one  by  one, 
The  last  still  flutters  in  the  sun. 
And  so  it  is  with  us  to-day, 
The  bowl  is  filled,  we  must  be  gay, 
We'll  sing  old  songs  again,  and  yet, 
We've  lost  old  friends  since  last  we  met. 

But  could  some  lost  one  now  return, 
And  view  us  here,  he  would  discern 
Some  lips  that  press  the  goblet's  brim, 
To  hide  the  sigh  that's  breathed  for  him. 
We  do  not  meet  to  banish  thought  ; 
Yet,  though  regrets  will  come  unsought, 
We  will  not  waste  in  sighs  of  grief, 
Life's  lingering  joy,  the  last  green  leaf. 


100 


OH !   SING  ME  NO  NEW  SONGS  TO-NIGHT. 

OH  !  sing  me  no  new  songs  to-night ; 

Repeat  the  plaintive  strain, 
My  favourite  air  in  former  years — 

Come,  sing  it  once  again  ; 
Sweet  thoughts  that  slumbered  start  to  life, 

And  give  my  heart  relief; 
And  though  I  weep  to  hear  that  song, 

'Tis  not  the  tear  of  grief. 

Her  precious  record  of  the  past 

Fond  memory  oft  conceals, 
But  music  with  her  master  key 

The  hidden  volume  steals  : 
The  loves,  the  friends,  the  hopes  of  youth, 

Are  stored  in  every  leaf; 
Oh  !  if  I  weep  to  hear  that  song, 

Tis  NOT  the  tear  of  grief. 


101 


THEY  CHIDE  ME  FOR  MY  GRIEF. 

THEY  chide  me  for  my  grief,  but  none 

Suspect  the  cause  of  my  regret ; 
They  know  not  that  I  mourn  for  one, 

Whom  they  so  easily  forget. 
When  they  threw  off  the  garb  of  wo, 

Their  spirits  seemed  again  set  free ; 
Alas  !  such  mourners  little  know 

The  grief  of  one  who  mourns  like  me. 

They  breathe  her  name  'mid  lighter  themes, 

With  loud  expressions  of  regret, 
Because  I  name  her  not,  it  seems 

To  their  cold  hearts  that  I  forget. 
But  though  my  tears  in  secret  flow, 

Still  none  shall  hear  me  speak  of  thee  ; 
Alas  !  such  mourners  little  know 

The  grief  of  one  who  mourns  like  me. 


102 


YOU  REMEMBER  IT— DON'T  YOU  ? 

You  remember  the  time  when  I  first  sought  your  home, 
When  a  smile,  not  a  word,  was  the  summons  to  come ; 
When  you  called  me  a  friend,  till  you  found,  with  surprise, 
That  our  friendship  turned  out  to  be  love  in  disguise. 
You  remember  it — don't  you  ? 
You  will  think  of  it — won't  you  ? 
Yes,  yes,  of  all  this  the  remembrance  will  last 
Long  after  the  present  fades  into  the  past. 

You  remember  the  grief  that  grew  lighter  when  shared  ; 
With  the  bliss,  you  remember,  could  aught  be  compared  ? 
You  remember  how  fond  was  my  earliest  vow  ? 
Not  fonder  than  that  which  I  breathe  to  thee  now. 
You  remember  it — don't  you  ? 
You  will  think  of  it — won't  you  ? 
Yes,  yes,  of  all  this  the  remembrance  will  last 
Long  after  the  present  fades  into  the  past. 


103 


SEEK  NOT  WITH  GOLD  OR  GLITTERING  GEM. 

SEEK  not  with  gold  or  glittering  gem, 

My  simple  heart  to  move  ; 
To  share  a  kingly  diadem, 

Would  never  gain  my  love. 
The  heart  that's  formed  in  virtue's  mould, 

For  heart  should  be  exchanged  ; 
The  love  that  once  is  bought  with  gold, 

May  be  by  gold  estranged. 

Can  wealth  relieve  the  lab'ring  mind  ? 

Or  calm  the  soul  to  rest  ? 
What  healing  balm  can  riches  find 

To  soothe  the  bleeding  breast  ? 
'Tis  love,  and  love  alone,  has  power 

To  bless  without  alloy ; 
To  cheer  affliction's"  darkest  hour, 

And  brighten  every  joy. 


104 


OH!  HADST  THOU  NEVER  SHARED  MY  FATE. 

OH  !  hadst  thou  never  shared  my  fate, 

More  dark  that  fate  would  prove  ; 
My  heart  were  truly  desolate, 

Without  thy  soothing  love  : 
But  thou  hast  suffered  for  my  sake, 

While  this  relief  I  found  : 
Like  fearless  lips  that  strive  to  take 

The  poison  from  the  wound. 

My  fond  affection  thou  hast  seen, 

Then  judge  of  my  regret, 
To  think  more  happy  thou  hadst  been 

If  we  had  never  met : 
And  has  that  thought  been  shared  by  thee  ? 

Ah  !  no  :  that  smiling  cheek, 
Proves  more  unchanging  love  for  me. 

Than  laboured  words  can  speak. 


105 


WITHER  AWAY. 

WITHER  away,  green  leaves, 

Wither  away,  sweet  flowers ; 
For  me  in  vain  young  Spring  has  thrown 

Her  mantle  o'er  the  bowers  : 
Sing  not  to  me,  gay  birds, 

Borne  in  bright  plumage  hither ; 
The  heart  recoils  from  Pleasure's  voice 

When  all  its  fond  hopes  wither ! 

Wither  away,  my  friends, 

Whom  I  have  loved  sincerely ; 
'Tis  hard  to  sigh  for  the  silent  tomb 

As  a  place  of  rest,  so  early  ! 
While  others  prize  the  rose, 

The  cypress  wreath  I'll  gather  ; 
The  heart  recoils  from  Pleasure's  voice 

When  all  its  fond  hopes  wither. 


106 


THE  GAY  TROUBADOUR. 

IN  time  of  peace,  a  troubadour 

Is  the  pride  of  his  lady's  bower  ; 
He  dances  and  plays  on  his  gay  guitar, 

To  win  from  her  hand  a  flower. 
He  wears  a  sword,  that  its  silken  knot 

With  its  tassels  of  gold  may  glisten ; 
And  he  sings  of  war  in  a  careless  tone, 

While  ladies  around  him  listen. 

In  time  of  war,  the  troubadour 

Thinks  not  of  his  love  sick  story  ; 
His  trusty  sword  is  in  favour  then, 

And  his  thoughts  are  all  of  glory. 
His  silken  sword-knot  he  then  disdains, 

As  proudly  his  war-steed  prances, 
The  music  he  loves  is  the  trumpet's  sound, 

As  the  enemy's  host  advances. 


107 


YOU  NEVER  KNEW  ANNETTE. 

You  praise  each  youthful  form  you  see, 

And  love  is  still  your  theme ; 
And  when  you  win  no  praise  from  me, 

You  say  how  cold  I  seem. 
You  know  not  what  it  is  to  pine 

With  ceaseless  vain  regret ; 
You  never  felt  a  love  like  mine, 

You  never  knew  Annette. 

For  ever  changing,  still  you  rove 

As  I  in  boyhood  roved  ; 
But  when  you  tell  me  this  is  love, 

It  proves  you  never  loved. 
To  many  idols  you  have  knelt, 

And  therefore  soon  forget ; 
But  what  I  feel  you  never  felt, 

You  never  knew  Annette. 


108 


SING  ME  A  MELODY. 

OH  !  sing  me  a  melody — sing 

Some  song  that  of  old  was  your  choice ; 
Sad  thoughts  from  my  heart  will  take  wing, 

When  I  hear  the  loved  tone  of  your  voice. 
I  shall  seem  to  be  borne  again 

To  the  place  where  I  heard  you  sing  last  ; 
And  my  present  endurance  of  pain 

Will  be  lulled  in  a  dream  of  the  past. 

Though  absent  from  you,  I  have  thought 

It  would  cheer  me  to  hear  it  again  ; 
But  when  others  have  sung  it,  I  sought 

For  the  charm  it  once  boasted,  in  vain ; 
Any  voice  in  the  world  but  your  own 

Must  disturb  recollections  so  sweet, 
If  we  part,  love,  believe  me,  that  none 

Shall  sing  it  again  till  we  meet. 


109 


THE  LOCK  OF  HAIR. 

THE  gems  you  gave  me,  freely  take, 

Another'sjet  them  be  ; 
I  prize  them  but  for  your  dear  sake, 

They're  far  too  bright  for  me. 
Oh  !  take  again  the  golden  heart, 

That  I've  been  used  to  wear ; 
You  shall  not  have  its  precious  part, — 

I'll  keep  the  lock  of  hair. 

Believe  not,  though  so  bright  they  are, 

That  I  their  loss  deplore  ; 
For  I  have  treasures  dearer  far, 

Which  I  shall  ne'er  restore ; 
Oh  !  long  I've  kept  a  faded  rose 

Which  once  I  saw  you  wear ; 
And  though  from  me  the  false  heart  goes, 

I'll  keep  the  lock  of  hair. 


110 


GRIEF  WAS  SENT  THEE  FOR  THY  GOOD. 

SOME  there  are  who  seem  exempted 

From  the  doom  incurred  by  all ; 
Are  they  not  more  sorely  tempted  ? 

Are  they  not  the  first  to  fall  ? 
As  a  mother's  firm  denial 

Checks  her  infant's  wayward  mood, 
Wisdom  lurks  in  ev'ry  trial — 

Grief  was  sent  thee  for  thy  good. 

In  the  scenes  of  former  pleasure, 

Present  anguish  hast  thou  felt  ? 
O'er  thy  fond  heart's  dearest  treasure 

As  a  mourner  hast  thou  knelt  ? 
In  the  hour  of  deep  affliction, 

Let  no  impious  thought  intrude, 
Meekly  bow  with  this  conviction, 

Grief  was  sent  thee  for  thy  good. 


Ill 


ITALY,  BEAUTIFUL  LAND  ! 

ITALY,  Italy,  beautiful  land ! 
Calmly  thy  summer  sea  flows  o'er  the  sand, 
Home  of  the  laws  and  the  heroes  of  old, 
History  sanctifies  all  we  behold. 

Italy!  Italy!  oh,  thou  art  beautiful ! 
Calmly  thy  summer  sea  flows  o'er  the  sand. 

Italy!  Italy! 
Calmly  thy  summer  sea  flows  o'er  the  sand. 

Italy!  Italy!  what  though  I  roam, 
Gazing  in  rapture,  thou  art  not  my  home ! 
And  though  her  climate  is  changeful  and  chill, 
England,  my  birthplace,  is  dear  to  me  still. 

Italy !  Italy !  though  thou  art  beautiful, 
England  my  birthplace  is  dear  to  me  still ; 

Italy!  Italy! 
England  my  birthplace  is  dear  to  me  still. 


112 


THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  SOLDIER  BOY. 

WHY  daily  goes  the  matron  forth 

As  'twere  to  trace  the  dead ! 
No  stain  of  gore  is  on  the  earth, — 

On  flowers  and  grass  we  tread. 
Though  summer  fields  are  green  again, 

And  crystal  .waters  glide, 
Yet  this  was  once  a  battle-plain, 

Here  brave  men  fought  and  died. 

Her  only  son  had  fallen  there  ; — 

To  some,  time  brings  relief; 
Unmarked  he  passes  with  despair, — 

Still  recent  seems  her  grief. 
Since  then,  though  many  suns  have  shone 

The  matron  dreams  of  joy, 
And  daily  wanders  forth  alone, 

To  seek  her  soldier  boy. 


113 


THEY  DEEM  IT  A  SORROW  GONE  BY. 

THE  smile  is  again  on  my  cheek, 

The  jest  is  again  on  my  tongue ; 
I  see  them  exult  when  I  seek 

The  haunts  of  the  gay  and  the  young ; 
They  think  a  new  love  will  atone 

For  one  that  but  blossomed  to  die ; 
They  see  not  my  tears  when  alone, 

They  deem  it  a  sorrow  gone  by. 

They  deem  it  a  sorrow  gone  by, 

A  passion  effaced  from  my  heart, 
But  rankling  the  poison  may  lie 

When  time  has  extracted  the  dart ; 
Again  to  the  dance  I  have  gone ; 

They  think  that  my  spirits  are  high  ; 
They  see  not  my  tears  when  alone, 

They  deem  it  a  sorrow  gone  by. 


114 


OH !  MY  BRAVEST  AND  BEST,  I  RESIGN  THEE. 

OH  !  my  bravest  and  best,  I  resign  thee, 

My  heart  will  be  desolate  now; 
And  the  laurels  that  fame  will  entwine  thee, 

I  never  shall  see  on  thy  brow. 
Thou  art  called,  and  to  pause  were  an  error, 

Which  naught  could  hereafter  efface ; 
Though  I  think  of  thy  danger  with  terror, 

Less  could  I  endure  thy  disgrace. 

To  thy  wish  had  I  breathed  a  denial, 

I  know  thou  would'st  meekly  obey; 
Then  think  how  severe  is  the  trial 

To  her  who  now  sends  thee  away; 
Though  had  she  the  heart  to  refuse  thee, 

Few  surely  the  widow  could  blame ; 
Yet  oh  !  'twere  far  better  to  lose  thee, 

Than  feel  I  had  darkened  thy  fame. 


115 


WITHERED  ROSES. 

LET  us  talk  of  the  past,  and  forget 

For  a  while  all  the  gloom  of  the  present ; 
There  is  pleasure  in  store  for  us  yet, 

While  discoursing  of  days  that  were  pleasant. 
Let  no  thought  of  the  future  intrude, 

And  when  mem'ry  her  portals  uncloses, 
Then  our  path  for  a  time  will  be  strewed 

With  the  sweet  leaves  of  long  withered  roses. 

Let  us  talk  of  the  past,  and  rejoice 

While  we  seem  to  view  far  distant  faces, 
While  we  list  to  some  long  silent  voice, 

And  look  round  on  youth's  favourite  places  ; 
Every  gleam  of  the  present  exclude 

While  the  sense  of  its  anguish  reposes, 
Then  our  path  for  a  time  will  be  strewed 

With  the  sweet  leaves  of  long  withered  roses. 


i 

* 


116 


THE  SONG  OF  GULNARE. 

FAR  from  my  own  land,  the  land  of  my  fathers, 

The  ship  of  the  stranger  now  bears  me  away ; 
Darkly  around  me  the  ocean  mist  gathers, 

I  hear  not  a  sound  save  the  dash  of  the  spray. 
Now  near  me  the  night-watch  the  forecastle  paces, 

Striving  to  banish  the  exile's  despair  ; 
He  praises  the  isle  that  we  seek,  but  all  places 

Are  cheerless  without  the  sweet  song  of  Gulnare. 

Oh,  my  own  country  !  thy  fruits  and  thy  flowers 

Would  fade  'neath  the  islander's  temperate  sky ; 
Let  me  return  to  the  orange-tree  bowers, 

And  there  with  my  own  love  contented  I'll  die. 
They  say  that  they  lead  me  where  woman  possesses 

A  soft  eye  of  azure,  and  light  golden  hair, 
But  give  me  the  land  of  the  long  ebon  tresses, 

The  glance  of  dark  lustre,  the  song  of  Gulnare. 


117 


SHE  NEVER  BLAMED  HIM. 

SHE  never  blamed  him,  never ; 

But  received  him,  when  he  came, 
With  a  welcome  kind  as  ever, 

And  she  tried  to  look  the  same ; 
But  vainly  she  dissembled — 

For  whene'er  she  tried  to  smile, 
A  tear  unbidden,  trembled, 

In  her  blue  eye  all  the  while. 

She  knew  that  she  was  dying, 

And  she  dreaded  not  her  doom ; 
She  never  thought  of  sighing 

O'er  her  beauty's  blighted  bloom. 
She  knew  her  cheek  was  altered, 

And  she  knew  her  eye  was  dim ; 
Her  voice,  though,  only  faltered 

When  she  spoke  of  losing  him. 

'Tis  true  that  he  had  lured  her 

From  the  isle  where  she  was  born- 
'Tis  true  he  had  inured  her 

To  the  cold  world's  cruel  scorn ; 
But  yet  she  never  blamed  him 

For  the  anguish  she  had  known ; 
And  though  she  seldom  named  him, 

Yet  she  thought  of  him  alone. 


118  SHE  NEVER  BLAMED  HIM. 

She  sighed  when  he  caressed  her, 

For  she  knew  that  they  must  part ; 
She  spoke  not  when  he  pressed  her 

To  his  young  and  panting  heart, 
The  banners  waved  around  her, 

And  she  heard  the  bugle's  sound — 
They  passed — and  strangers  found  her 

Cold  and  lifeless  on  the  ground. 


119 


WE  MET ! 

WE  met,  'twas  in  a  crowd, 

And  I  thought  he  would  shun  me ; 
He  came  ; — I  could  not  breathe, 

For  his  eye  was  upon  me ; 
He  spoke,  his  words  were  cold, 
.   And  his  smile  was  unaltered ; 
I  knew  how  much  he  felt, 

For  his  deep-toned  voice  faltered. 

I  wore  my  bridal  robe, 

And  I  rivalled  its  whiteness, 
Bright  gems  were  in  my  hair, 

How  I  hated  their  brightness ! 
He  called  me  by  my  name, 

As  the  bride  of  another, 
Oh  !  thou  hast  been  the  cause 

Of  this  anguish,  my  mother  ! 

And  once  again  we  met, 

And  a  fair  girl  was  near  him, 
He  smiled,  and  whispered  low, 

As  I  once  used  to  hear  him  ; 
She  leant  upon  his  arm, 

Once,  'twas  mine,  and  mine  only, 
I  wept,  for  I  deserved 

To  feel  wretched  and  lonely. 


120  WE  MET. 

And  she  will  be  his  bride  ! 

At  the  altar  he'll  give  her 
That  love  that  was  too  pure 

For  a  heartless  deceiver. 
The  world  may  think  me  gay, 

For  my  feelings  I  smother, 
Oh  !  thpu  hast  been  the  cause 

Of  this  anguish,  my  mother  ! 


121 


UPON  THY  TRUTH  RELYING. 

THEY  say  we  are  too  young  to  love, — 

Too  wild  to  be  united  ; 
In  scorn  they  bid  us  both  renounce 

The  fond  vows  we  have  plighted. 
They  send  thee  forth  to  see  the  world, 

Thy  love  by  absence  trying : 
Then  go  ;  for  I  can  smile  farewell, — 

Upon  thy  truth  relying. 

I  know  that  Pleasure's  hand  will  throw 

Her  silken  nets  about  thee  ; 
I  know  how  lonesome  1  shall  find 

The  long,  long  days  without  thee. 
But  in  thy  letters  there'll  be  joy  ; 

The  reading, — the  replying  : 
I'll  kiss  each  word  that's  traced  by  thee — 

Upon  thy  truth  relying. 

When  friends  applaud  thee,  I'll  sit  by, 

In  silent  rapture  gazing  ; 
And,  oh  !  how  proud  of  being  loved 

By  her  they  have  been  praising  ! 
But  should  Detraction  breathe  thy  name, 

The  world's  reproof  defying, 
I'd  love  thee, — laud  thee, — trust  thee  still, - 

Upon  thy  truth  relying. 


122  UPON  THY  TRUTH  RELYING. 

E'en  those  who  smile  to  see  us  part, 

Shall  see  us  meet  with  wonder ; 
Such  trials  only  make  the  heart 

That  truly  loves  grow  fonder. 
Our  sorrows  past  shall  be  our  pride, 

When  with  each  other  vying  ; 
Thou  wilt  confide  in  him,  who  lives 

Upon  thy  truth  relying. 


s; 

123 


THE  LADY  OF  MY  LORD. 

I'VE  seen  her  in  her  princely  home, 

The  birthplace  of  her  lord  ; 
A  hundred  vassals  waited  there, 

Obedient  to  her  word. 
Her  salon  is  magnificent, 

Each  panel  gaily  decked 
With  mirrors, — and  how  beautiful 

The  form  which  they  reflect ! 
And  proud  she  looks ! — but  why  is  she 

So  lonely  in  her  pride  ? 
She  was  the  lady  of  my  lord 

Before  she  was  his  bride ! 

In  days  of  yore  that  mansion  was 

A  hospitable  scene  : 
At  Christmas-time  a  merry  place 

Its  hall  hath  ever  been. 
And  there  are  nobles  dwelling  near, — 

Why  stand  they  all  aloof? 
Why  doth  no  other  lady  now 

Appear  beneath  that  roof? 
Why  hath  each  festive  project  failed, 

Whene'er  it  hath  been  tried  ? 
She  was  the  lady  of  my  lord 

Before  she  was  his  bride  ! 


124  THE  LADY  OF  MY  LORD. 

I've  seen  her  at  her  town  abode, 

In  London's  busy  spring — 
Her  lord  hath  to  the  levee  gone — 

Been  welcomed  by  the  king. 
But  why,  when  all  of  equal  rank 

Pay  homage  to  the  queen — 
Say — wherefore  at  the  drawing-room 

Hath  she  been  never  seen  ? 
To  her — despite  her  coronet — 

The  entree  is  denied  : 
She  was  the  lady  of  my  lord 

Before  she  was  his  bride  ! 

Yet  she  will  give  a  noble  feast :  • 

The  services  of  plate, 
The  viands,  wines,  appointments,  all 

Shall  rival  regal  state  ! 
And  she  shall  boast  of  high-born  guests, 

And  she  shall  number,  then, 
The  wits,  the  sages,  of  the  day, 

Yet  none,  alas  !  but  men  ! 
Why  sits  no  lady  at  the  board, 

Save  those  by  blood  allied  ? 
She  was  the  lady  of  my  lord 

Before  she  was  his  bride  ! 

How  gorgeous  is  her  equipage  ! 

And  to  some  public  fete, 
Where  money  can  procure  access, 

She  goes  in  all  her  state  ! 
How  rich  her  dress  ! — but  why  do  all 

Of  station  like  her  own, 


THE  LADY  OF  MY  LORD.  125 

So  curiously  gaze,  as  if 

On  one  before  unknown  ? 
And,  having  seen  the  stranger  once, 

Why  stand  they  all  aside  ? 
She  was  the  lady  of  my  lord 

Before  she  was  his  bride  ! 

Can  woman's  heart  take  pleasure  in 

Magnificence  like  this  ? 
Can  honours  that  are  coupled  with 

Dishonour,  offer  bliss  7 
Can  she  look  round  complacently 

Upon  her  gorgeous  home, 
While  she  receives  some  noble  guest, 

Whose  wife  would  scorn  to  come  ? 
No !  there's  a  hateful  thought,  that  must 

Embitter  all  beside ! 
She  was  the  lady  of  my  lord 

Before  she  was  his  bride  ! 

And  is  there  not  a  lesson  taught 

By  one  so  young  and  fair  1 
May  not  some  erring  beauty  pause, 

And  learn  discretion  there  1 
Though  rich,  how  little  happiness 

Can  gold  on  her  bestow  ! 
Though  nominally  high  in  rank, 

How  practically  low ! 
If  now  a  wife,  how  proud  her  lot 

Had  she  his  suit  denied, 
Nor  been  the  lady  of  my  lord 

Before  she  was  his  bride ! 


126 


THE  DWARF. 

i  LAY  without  my  father's  door, 

A  wretched  dwarfish  boy; 
I  did  not  dare  to  lift  the  latch,— 

I  heard  the  voice  of  joy  ; 
Too  well  I  knew  when  I  was  near, 

My  father  never  smiled  ; 
And  she  who  bore  me  turned  away, 

Abhorring  her  poor  child. 

A  stranger  saw  me,  and  he  bribed 

My  parents  with  his  gold  ; 
Oh  !  deeper  shame  awaited  me — 

The  dwarfish  boy  was  sold  ! 
They  never  loved  me,  never  claimed 

The  love  I  could  have  felt ; 
And  yet,  with  bitter  tears  I  left 

The  cottage  where  they  dwelt. 

The  stranger  seemed  more  kind  to  me, 
He  spoke  of  brighter  days  ; 

He  lured  each  slumbering  talent  forth, 
And  gave  unwonted  praise  : 


THE  DWARF.  127 

Unused  to  smiles,  how  ardently 

I  panted  for  applause  ! 
And  daily  he  instructed  me — 

Too  soon  I  learned  the  cause. 

I  stood  upon  his  native  shore  ; 

The  secret  was  explained  ; 
I  was  a  vile,  degraded  slave, 

In  mind  and  body  chained ! 
Condemned  to  face,  day  after  day, 

The  rabble's  ruffian  gaze  ; 
To  shrink  before  their  merriment, 

Or  blush  before  their  praise  ! 

In  anguish  I  must  still  perform 

The  oft- repeated  task  ; 
And  courteously  reply  to  all 

Frivolity  may  ask  ! 
And  bear  inhuman  scrutiny, 

And  hear  the  hateful  jest ! 
And  sing  the  song — then  crawl  away 

To  tears  instead  of  rest ! 

I  know  I  am  diminutive, 

Ay,  loathsome,  if  you  will  ; 
But  say,  ye  hard  hearts  !  am  I  not 

A  human  being  still  ? 
With  feelings  sensitive  as  yours, 

Perhaps,  I  have  been  born  ; 
I  could  not  wound  a  fellow-man 

In  mockery,  or  scorn  ! 


128  THE  DWARF. 

But  some  there  are  who  seem  to  shrink 

Away  from  me  at  first, 
And  then  speak  kindly;  to  my  heart 

That  trial  is  the  worst ! 
Oh  !  then  I  long  to  kneel  to  them, 

Imploring  them  to  save 
A  hopeless  wretch,  who  only  asks 

An  honourable  grave. 


131 


SHE  WORE  A  WREATH  OF  ROSES. 

SHE  wore  a  wreath  of  roses 

The  night  that  first  we  met, 
Her  lovely  face  was  smiling 

Beneath  her  curls  of  jet  ; 
Her  footstep  had  the  lightness,. 

Her  voice  the  joyous  tone, 
The  tokens  of  a  youthful  heart, 

Where  sorrow  is  unknown  ; 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment — 

Yet,  methinks,  I  see  her  now, 
With  the  wreath  of  summer  flowers 

Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

A  wreath  of  orange  blossoms, 

When  next  we  met,  she  wore ; 
Th'  expression  of  her  features 

Was  more  thoughtful  than  before  ; 
And  standing  by  her  side  was  one 

Who  strove,  and  not  in  vain, 
To  soothe  her,  leaving  that  dear  home 

She  ne'er  might  view  again. 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment — 

Yet,  methinks,  I  see  her  now, 
With  the  wreath  of  orange  blossoms 

Upon  her  snowy  brow. 


132  SHE  WORE  A  WREATH  OF  ROSES. 

And  once  again  I  see  that  brow, 

No  bridal  wreath  is  there, 
The  widow's  sombre  cap  conceals 

Her  once  luxuriant  hair ; 
She  weeps  in  silent  solitude, 

And  there  is  no  one  near 
To  press  her  hand  within  his  own, 

And  wipe  away  the  tear. 
I  see  her  broken-hearted  ! 

Yet,  methinks,  I  see  her  now 
In  the  pride  of  youth  and  beauty, 

With  a  garland  on  her  brow. 


133 


I  KNEW  HIM  NOT— I  SOUGHT  HIM  NOT. 

I  KNEW  him  not,  I  sought  him  not, 

He  was  my  father's  guest : 
I  gave  him  not  one  smile  more  kind 

Than  those  I  gave  the  rest : 
He 'sat  beside  me  at  the  board, 

The  choice  was  not  my  own, 
But  oh  !  I  never  heard  a  voice 

With  half  so  sweet  a  tone. 

And  at  the  dance  again  we  met, 

Again  I  was  his  choice, 
Again  I  heard  the  gentle  tone 

Of  that  beguiling  voice  : 
I  sought  him  not — he  led  me  forth 

From  all  the  fairest  there, 
And  told  me  he  had  never  seen 

A  face  he  thought  so  fair. 

Ah  !  wherefore  did  he  tell  me  this  ? 

His  praises  made  me  vain  : 
And  when  he  left  me,  how  I  longed 

To  hear  that  voice  again ! 
I  wondered  why  my  old  pursuits 

Had  lost  their  wonted  charm, 
And  why  the  path  was  dull  unless 

I  leaned  upon  his  arm. 


134  I  KNEW  HIM  NOT. 

Alas  !  I  might  have  guessed  the  cause — 

For  what  could  make  me  shun 
My  parents'  cheerful  dwelling-place 

To  wander  all  alone  ? 
And  what  could  make  me  braid  my  hair, 

And  study  to  improve 
The  form  that  he  had  deigned  to  praise — 

What  could  it  be  but  love  ? 

Oh  !  little  knew  I  of  the  world, 

And  less  of  man's  career : 
I  thought  each  smile  was  kindly  meant — 

Each  word  of  praise  sincere : 
His  sweet  voice  spoke  of  endless  love — 

I  listened  and  believed, 
And  little  dreamt  as  oft  before 

That  sweet  voice  had  deceived. 

He  smiles  upon  another  now — 

And  in  the  same  sweet  tone 
He  breathes  to  her  those  winning  words 

I  once  thought  all  my  own  : 
Oh  !  why  is  she  so  beautiful  ? 

I  cannot  blame  his  choice — 
Nor  can  I  doubt  she  will  be  won 

By  that  beguiling  voice. 


135 


THEODORE'S  MESSENGER. 

« 

'  *  Go,  my  messenger  dove  ! — how  I  envy  your  flight ! 
You  on  Anna  will  gaze  ere  you  slumber  to-night." 
Thus  Theodore  cried,  as  he  fastened  the  string, 
And  his  letter  lay  hid  'neath  its  delicate  wing. 

Away  flew  the  bird,  like  a  shaft  from  a  bow, — 
Poor  Theodore  thought  that  its  progress  was  slow  ; 
From  his  casement  at  length  he  sank  back  with  a  sigh, 
"  But  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  read  her  reply." 

Oh,  slow  passed  the  day,  and  more  slow  passed  the  night, 
He  eagerly  watched  for  the  first  ray  of  light ; 
His  dove  is  returned,  he  has  loosened  the  string — 
His  letter  untouched  still  lies  under  its  wing ! 

His  courser  is  urged  over  mountain  and  heath, 
Her  silence  is  caused  but  by  danger  or  death  ; 
Her  cottage  he  sees,  but  no  Anna  is  there — 
In  the  castle  she  dwells — she  is  bride  to  the  heir. 


136 


I  WILL  BE  KIND  TO  YOU. 

I  WILL  be  kind  to  you,  kinder  than  ever, 

Watching  your  will  in  the  glance  of  your  eye, 

Oh  !  do  not  think  I  could  cruelly  sever 

A  bud  from  the  bough,  and  then  leave  it  to  die ! 

Check  not  those  natural  tears,  they  are  flowing 

For  friends  who  were  kind  ere  your  lover  was  known  ; 

Yet  you  may  smile  through  those  tears,  you  are  going 
With  one  whose  affection  shall  equal  their  own. 

I  will  be  kind  to  you,  though  it  may  wound  you 

To  leave  your  loved  home,  this  atonement  I'll  make, 

All  my  life  long  I  will  strive  to  surround  you 

With  smiles  such  as  those  you  resigned  for  my  sake. 

Surely  you  cannot  believe,  if  I  wanted 
The  sweetest  exotic  my  taste  could  select, 

I'd  turn  away,  when  my  prize  was  transplanted, 
And  leave  it  to  wither  and  die  of  neglect. 


137 


THREE  TIMES  HAD  THE  SUMMONS  RESOUNDED. 

THREE  times  had  the  summons  resounded  afar, 
'Twas  the  death-note  of  love  the  shrill  trumpet  of  war. 
The  horsemen  were  ready,  the  chieftain  looked  round 
For  the  maid  that  he  loved,  she  was  not  to  be  found  ! 
"  Oh  !  false  one,"  he  murmured,  as  onward  he  rode, 
"  One  kind  word  at  parting  she  might  have  bestowed." 

His  sword  was  flung  from  him,  his  war-steed  was  slain ; 
A  stranger  knight  raised  him  and  armed  him  again  ; 
When  pale,  though  triumphant,  he  leaned  on  his  spear, 
The  unknown,  in  silence,  was  hovering  near ; 
"  I  thank  thee,"  he  murmured,  "  but  what  is  life  worth 
When  unblest  by  his  false  love  the  soldier  goes  forth !" 

"And  did  she  not  bless  thee?"  the  stranger  knight  cried, 
"  And  was  she  a  false  one,  who  fought  by  thy  side  ? 
Oh  !  do  not  say  so,  till  her  falsehood  is  proved  ;" 
The  helmet  was  raised, — 'twas  the  maiden  he  loved ! 
"  Henceforth,"  cried  the  chief,  "be  my  tutelar  star, 
My  guide  and  my  solace,  in  peace  and  in  war." 


138 


LOVE  IS  THE  THEME  OF  THE  MINSTREL. 

LOVE  is  the  theme  of  the  minstrel  all  over  the  earth ! 
List  to  the  light-hearted  chanson  of  France, 
Trace  the  burden  of  German  romance, 
Hear  the  guitar  in  the  sweet  orange  grove, 
Of  what  sings  the  Spaniard?  oh  !  is  it  not  love? 

Yes !  love  is  the  theme  of  the  minstrel  all  over  the  earth  ! 

Love  is  the  theme  of  the  minstrel  all  over  the  earth  ! 
List  to  the  song  in  the  camp  of  the  brave, 
Hear  the  sailor,  the  sport  of  the  wave, 
In  court  or  in  cottage,  wherever  you  rove, 
Of  what  sings  the  minstrel  ?  oh  !  is  it  not  love  ? 

Yes !  love  is  the  theme  of  the  minstrel  ail  over  the  earth ! 


139 


OH !    FROM  A  MOTHER'S  EYE. 

OH  !  from  a  mother's  eye 

To  veil  a  secret  error, 
From  love's  approach  to  fly, 

And  hide  with  panting  terror  ; 
To  shrink  from  words  of  praise, 

Though  breathed  by  fond  affection, 
And  through  long  weary  days, 

To  tremble  at  detection, 
This  is  the  depth  of  wo, 
Which  guilt  alone  can  know. 

To  cheer  a  mother's  breast, 

When  fortune  frowns  upon  her, 
To  soothe  her  grief  to  rest, 

And  seek  when  others  shun  her ; 
Her  sad  and  secret  fear, 

With  words  of  hope  beguiling, 
To  chase  away  the  tear, 

And  smile  to  see  her  smiling ; 
Oh  !  this  is  a  transport  known 
To  innocence  alone. 


140 


TAKE  YOUR  POLITICS  HENCE ! 

TAKE  your  politics  hence,  for  one  evening  at  least, 
Driv'e  that  demon  of  discord  away  from  the  feast ; 
To  my  party  the  men  of  all  parties  may  come, 
If  they'll  only  just  leave  party  feeling  at  home ; 
The  speechless  in  public,  are  ever,  I  see, 
Little  Orator  Puffs  in  a  snug  coterie ; 
If  you  name  your  vile  house  you  will  give  me  offence, 
Oh,  let  my  house  be  neutral, — take  politics  hence  ! 

These  politics  now  are  become  quite  a  pest ; 
What  a  fuss  ere  we  venture  to  ask  a  new  guest ! 
"  Mr.  E.,  do  you  see,  would  be  welcome  to  me, 
But  then — do  you  think  he'd  chime  in  with  Lord  G  ?" 
So  the  pleasantest  men  you  must  sort  and  divide, 
When  you  find  that  their  politics  don't  coincide. 
If  you  name  your  vile  house  you  will  give  me  offence, 
Oh,  let  my  house  be  neutral, — take  politics  hence  ! 

The  ladies  are  now  a  political  race, 

They  think  of  their  canvass  much  more  than  their  lace, 

And  instead  of  soft  whispers  in  private  they  each 

Wish  to  hear  a  young  man's  parliamentary  speech  ! 

A  reforming  old  tory  you  now  may  look  big, 

And  I'll  call  myself  a  conservative  whig  ; 

And  we'll  tell  the  fair  creatures  to  talk  common  sense, 

For  that  my  house  is  neutral, — take  politics  hence  ! 


141 


SEEING'S  NOT  BELIEVING ! 

I  SAW  her,  as  I  fancied,  fair, 

Yes  fairest  of  earth's  creatures  ; 
I  saw  the  purest  red  and  white 

O'erspread  her  lovely  features ; 
She  fainted,  and  I  sprinkled  her, 

Her  malady  relieving  ; 
I  washed  both  rose  and  lily  off! — 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing  ! 

I  looked  again,  again  I  longed 

To  breathe  love's  fond  confession ; 
I  saw  her  eyebrows  formed  to  give 

Her  face  its  arch  expression  ; 
But  gum  is  very  apt  to  crack, 

And  whilst  my  breast  was  heaving, 
It  so  fell  out  that  one  fell  off!— 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing  ! 

I  saw  the  tresses  on  her  brow, 

So  beautifully  braided ; 
I  never  saw,  in  all  my  life, 

Locks  look  so  well  as  they  did. 
She  walked  with  me  one  windy  day — 

Ye  zephyrs,  why  so  thieving  ? 
The  lady  lost  her  flaxen  wig ! — 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing  ! 


142  SEEING'S  NOT  BELIEVING. 

I  saw  her  form,  by  Nature's  hand 

So  prodigally  finished, 
She  were  less  perfect  if  enlarged^ 

Less  perfect  if  diminished  ; 
Her  toilet  I  surprised, — the  worst 

Of  wonders  then  achieving, — 
None  know  the  bustle  I  perceived!— 

Oh      seeing's  not  believing  ! 

I  saw,  when  costly  gems  I  gave, 

The  smile  with  which  she  took  them  ; 
And  if  she  said  no  tender  things, 

I've  often  seen  her  look  them : 
I  saw  her  my  affianced  bride, — 

And  then  my  mansion  leaving, 
She  ran  away  with  Colonel  Jones  ! — 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing  ! 

I  saw  another  maiden  soon, 

And  struggled  to  detain  her ; 
I  saw  her  plain  enough — in  fact, 

Few  women  could  be  plainer  ; 
'Twas  said  that  at  her  father's  death 

A  plum  she'd  be  receiving — 
I  saw  that  father's  house  and  grounds ! — 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing  ! 

I  saw  her  mother — she  was  decked 
With  furbelows  and  feathers  ; 

I  saw  distinctly  that  she  wore 
Silk  stockings  in  all  weathers  ; 


SEEING'S  NOT  BELIEVING..  143 

I  saw,  beneath  a  load  of  gems, 

The  matron's  bosom  heaving; 
I  saw  a  thousand  signs  of  wealth  ! — 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing  ! 

I  saw  her  father,  and  1  spoke 

Of  marriage  in  his  study ; 
But  would  he  let  her  marry  me  ? 

Alas  !  alas  !    how  could  he  ! 
I  saw  him  smile  a  glad  consent, 

My  anxious  heart  relieving, 
And  then  I  saw  the  settlements — 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing  ! 

I  saw  the  daughter,  and  I  named 

My  moderate  finances  ; 
She  spurned  me  not,  she  gave  me  one 

Of  her  most  tender  glances  ; 
I  saw  her  father's  bank — thought  I, 

There  cash  is  safe  from  thieving ; 
I  saw  my  money  safely  lodged  ! — 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing  ! 

I  saw  the  bank,  the  shutters  up, 

I  could  not  think  what  they  meant ! 
The  old  infirmity  of  firms, 

The  bank  had  just  stopt  payment! 
I  saw  my  future  father  then 

Was  ruined  past  retrieving, 
Like  me,  without  a  single  sous ! — 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing ! 


144  SEEING'S  NOT  BELIEVING. 

I  saw  the  banker's  wife  had  got 

The  fortune  settled  on  her  ; 
What  cared  he  when  the  creditors 

Talked  loudly  of  dishonour  ? 
I  saw  his  name  in  the  "  Gazette," 

But  soon  I  stared,  perceiving 
He  bought  another  house  and  grounds  !- 

Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing ! 

I  saw — yes,  plain  as  plain  could  be— 
I  saw  the  banker's  daughter  ; 

She  saw  me  too,  and  called  for  sal- 
Volatile  and  water  : 

She  said  that  she  had  just  espoused 
A  rich  old  man,  conceiving 

That  I  was  dead  or  gone  to  jail ! — 
Oh  !  seeing's  not  believing  ! 

I  saw  a  friend,  and  freely  spoke 

My  mind  of  the  transaction  ; 
Her  brother  heard  it  and  he  called 

Demanding  satisfaction  ; 
We  met— I  fell— that  brother's  ball 

In  my  left  leg  receiving — 
I  have  two  legs — true — one  is  cork  ; 

Oh  J  seeing's  not  believing  ! 


145 


THREE  WEEKS  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

I  DON'T  care  three-and-sixpence  now 

For  any  thing  in  life ; 
My  days  of  fun  are  over  now, 

I'm  married  to  a  wife — 
I'm  married  to  a  wife,  my  boys, 

And  that,  by  Jove,  's  no  joke! 
I've  eat  the  white  of  this  world's  egg, 

And  now  I've  got  the  yolk. 

I'm  sick  of  sending  marriage  cake, 

Of  eating  marriage  dinners, 
And  all  the  fuss  that  people  make 

With  newly-wed  beginners  ; 
I  care  not  now  for  white  champagne, 

I  never  cared  for  red  ; 
Blue  coats  are  all  blue  bores  to  me, 

And  Limerick  gloves  or  kid. 

And  as  to  posting  up  and  down, 

It  adds  to  all  my  ills  ; 
At  every  paltry  country  town 

I  wish  you  saw  the  bills ; 
They  know  me  for  a  married  man, 

Their  smirking  says  they  do, 
And  charge  me  as  the  Scots  Grays  charged 

The  French  at  Waterloo. 
10 


146  THREE  WEEKS  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

I've  grown,  too,  quite  an  idle  rogue, 

I  only  eat  and  drink  ; 
Reading  with  me  is  not  in  vogue, 

I  can't  be  plagued  to  think  ; 
When  breakfast's  over,  I  begin 

To  wish  'twere  dinner-time, 
And  these  are  all  the  changes  now 

In  my  life's  pantomime. 

I  wonder  if  this  state  be  what 

Folks  call  the  honey  moon  ? 
If  so,  upon  my  word,  I  hope 

It  will  be  over  soon ; 
For  too  much  honey  is  to  me 

Much  worse  than  too  much  salt  ; 
I'd  rather  read  from  end  to  end, 

The  works  of  Mr.  Gait. 

Oh  !  when  I  was  a  bachelor 

I  was  as  brisk  's  a  bee, 
But  now  I  lie  on  ottomans, 

And  languidly  sip  tea, 
Or  read  a  little  paragraph 

In  any  evening  paper, 
Then  think  it  time  to  go  to  sleep, 

And  light  my  bedroom  taper. 

Oh  !  when  I  was  a  bachelor 
I  always  had  some  plan 

To  win  myself  a  loving  wife, 
And  be  a  married  man  ; 


THREE  WEEKS  AFTER  MARRIAGE.  147 

And  now  that  I  am  so  at  last, 

My  plans  are  at  an  end. 
I  scarcely  know  one  thing  to  do, 

My  time  I  cannot  spend. 

J** 

Oh  !  when  I  was  a  bachelor, 

My  spirits  never  flagged, 
I  walked  as  if  a  pair  of  wings 

Had  to  my  feet  been  tagged ; 
But  I  walk  much  more  slowly  now, 

As  married  people  should, 
Were  I  to  walk  six  miles  an  hour, 

My  wife  might  think  it  rude. 

Yet  after  all,  I  must  confess, 

This  easy  sort  of  way 
Of  getting  o'er  life's  jolting  road, 

Is  what  I  can't  gainsay ; 
I  might  have  been  a  bachelor 

Until  my  dying  day, 
Which  would  have  been  to  err  at  least 

As  far  the  other  way. 


148 


A  COUNTRY  BALL  ON  THE  ALMACKS  PLAN. 

OH  !  joy  to  her  who  first  began 

A  country  ball  on  the  Almacks  plan ! 

Hogsnorton's  queen  she  walks  erect, 

The  ball  exclusive  and  select  ,* 

Four  ladies  patronesses  sit 

From  morn  to  night  arranging  it ; 

And  when  you  hear  the  names  of  all, 

You'll  guess  the  merits  of  the  ball. 
Plebeian  persons  they  reject, 
Hogsnorton  balls  are  so  select ! 

The  Squire's  own  lady,  Mistress  Pearl, 

Her  sister,  (quite  a  stylish  girl,) 

And  then  the  wife  of  Mr.  Flaw, 

(Churchwarden  and  a  man  of  law,) 

And  Mistress  Pitts,  the  Doctor's  bride, 

Related  on  the  mother's  side 

To  Mr.  Biggs,  (who  was,  you  know, 

Lord  Mayor  of  London  long  ago  !) 

By  these,  all  upstart  claims  are  checked, 
Hogsnorton  balls  are  so  select ! 

They've  quite  excluded  Mr.  Squills, 
Who  makes  the  antibilious  pills  ; 
Not  "  cause  he  makes  em"  but  they  say 
He  sells  em  in  a  retail  way  ; 


A  COUNTRY  BALL  ON  THE  ALMACKS  PLAN.       149 

But  Mr.  Squills  declares  his  wife 
Has  seen  a  deal  of  stylish  life, 
And  votes  Hogsnorton  people  low, 
So  if  she  could,  she  wouldn't  go — 

A  strange  remark,  when  you  reflect 

Hogsnorton  balls  are  so  select ! 

And  then  you  know  there's  Mr.  Flinn, 
The  rich  old  mercer,  can't  get  in ; 
And  Sweet  the  grocer  has  applied ! 
But  Sweet  the  grocer  was  denied ; 
And  both  appear  to  think  it  hard 
That  Slush  the  brewer  has  a  card  ; 
And  say,  "  Why  should  a  brewer  be 
One  bit  more  fit  for  hops  than  we  ?" 

But  Slush  of  course  is  quite  correct, 

Hogsnorton  balls  are  so  select ! 

Of  course  all  those  they  won't  admit, 
Discuss  the  ball,  and  censure  it ; 
And  strange  opinions  they  express 
About  each  lady  patroness  ; 
Says  Mrs.  Flinn  to  Mrs.  Sweet, 
"  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  elite  ;" 
Says  Mrs.  Sweet  to  Mrs.  Flinn, 
"  For  all  the  world  I'd  not  go  in !" 

Here  envious  feelings  we  detect, 

Hogsnorton  balls  are  so  select ! 

Says  Mrs.  Squills,  "  There's  Mrs.  Pearl, 
You'd  think  her  father  was  an  earl ! 


150      A  COUNTRY  BALL  ON  THE  ALMACKS  PLAN. 

So  high  and  mighty  !  bless  your  heart, 

I  recollect  her  much  less  smart, 

Before  she  married  ;  and  I  knew 

That  people  said  ('tis  entre  nous,) 

She  was  a  leetle  indiscreet ! 

So  much,  my  dear,  for  the  elite, 

"  Dear  me  !  don't  say  she's  incorrect, 
Hogsnorton  balls  are  so  select." 

Wo,  wo  to  her  who  first  began 
A  country  ball  on  the  Almacks  plan ! 
Grim  war  is  raging  in  the  town, 
The  men  are  raving  up  and  down  ; 
And  what  may  lead  to  worse  mishaps, 
The  ladies  all  are  pulling  caps  ; 
Indeed  we  hear,  from  one  and  all, 
As  much  of  bullets  as  the  ball, 

Why  was  Hogsnorton's  comfort  wreck'd  ? 

Because  her  balls  were  so  select. 


151 


DON'T  SING  ENGLISH  BALLADS  TO  ME ! 

I  HATE  English  ballads,  don't  sing  them, 
I  wish  cousin  John  wouldn't  bring  them, 
In  the  fire  I  beg  you  to  fling  them, 

And  sing  in  a  loftier  key. 
I've  bought  you  a  new  grand  piano, 
Your  voice  is  a  charming  soprano, 
Then  don't  sing  such  trumpery, — ah,  no ! 

Don't  sing  English  ballads  to  me ! 

"  We  met" — from  your  memory  drive  it; 
"  The  soldier's  tear" — shall  I  survive  it! 
Do  wipe  it  away,  love — for  private, 

The  tear  of  a  private  should  be ; 
What  ditty  is  this  you've  you're  hand  on  ? 
"  Isle  of  Beauty  !" — that  ballad  abandon, — 
It's  an  isle  I  have  no  wish  to  land  on ; 

Don't  sing  English  ballads  to  me ! 

The  English  words  seem  so  phlegmatic, 

Italian  is  aristocratic, 

I  know  that  the  sound  is  ecstatic, 

Whatever  the  meaning  may  be  ; 
I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  know  it ; 
As  for  learning,  I'd1  not  undergo  it ! 
If  ignorant,  why  should  we  show  it? 

Don't  sing  English  ballads  to  me ! 


152  DON'T  SING  ENGLISH  BALLADS  TO  ME. 

Pve  now  got  the  music  book  ready, 
Do  sit  up  and  sing  like  a  lady 
A  recitative  from  Tancredi, 

And  something  about  "  Palpiti  I" 
Sing  forte  when  first  you  begin  it, 
Piano  the  very  next  minute, 
They'll  cry  "  what  expression  there's  in  it !" 

Don't  sing  English  ballads  to  me ! 


153 


MY  CREAM-COLOURED  PONIES. 


Go  order  my  ponies  ;  so  brilliant  a  Sunday 

Is  certain  to  summon  forth  all  the  elite  ; 
And  cits  who  work  six  days,  and  revel  but  one  day, 

Will  trudge  to  the  West-End  from  Bishopsgate  Street. 
See  !  two  lines  of  carriages  almost  extending 

The  whole  way  from  Grosvenor  to  Cumberland  Gate  ; 
The  duchess  has  bowed  to  me  !  how  condescending  ! 

I  came  opportunely — I  thought  I  was  late. 

Pm  certain  my  ponies,  my  cream-coloured  ponies, 

Will  cause  a  sensation  wherever  I  go ; 
My  page  in  his  little  green  jacket  alone  is 

The  wonder  of  all !  oh,  I  hope  he  won't  grow! 
How  young  Sir  Charles  looks,  with  his  hat  so  well-fitted 

To  show  on  the  left  side  the  curls  of  his  wig ! 
I  wonder  that  yellow  post-chaise  was  admitted  1 

And  there's  an  enormity — three  in  a  gig. 

Dear  me  !  Lady  Emily  bowed  to  me  coolly ; 

Oh  !  look  at  that  crazy  old  family  coach  ? 
That  cab  is  a  mercantile  person's — 'tis  truly 

Amazing  how  those  sort  of  people  encroach ! 
Good  gracious!  the  pole  of  that  carriage  behind  us 

Is  going  to  enter  my  phaeton's  back  ! 
Do  call  to  them,  Robert !  oh,  why  won't  they  mind  us? 

I  hear  it !  I  feel  it !  bless  me,  what  a  crack  ! 


154  MY  CREAM-COLOURED  PONIES. 

Don't  glance  at  the  crowd  of  pedestrians  yonder, 

There's  vulgar  Miss  Middleton  looking  this  way. 
Let's  drive  down  to  Kensington  Gardens  ;  I  wonder 

We  havn't  met  Stan  more  this  beautiful  day. 
They've  upset  the  Countess's  carnage !  how  frightful ! 

Do  look  at  Sir  David — he'll  drive  here  till  dark  ! 
Let's  go  where  the  crowd  is  the  thickest ;  delightful ! 

My  cream-coloured  ponies,  the  pride  of  the  Park  ! 


155 


MY  MARRIED  DAUGHTER  COULD  YOU  SEE. 

MY  married  daughter  could  you  see, 

I'm  sure  you  would  be  struck, — 
My  daughters  all  are  charming  girls, 

Few  mothers  have  such  luck. 
My  married  one — my  eldest  child — 

All  hearts  by  magic  wins ; 
And  my  second  so  resembles  her, 

Most  people  think  them  twins ! 

r  <t  -  4  --  " 

My  married  daughter  spoils  her  spouse, — 
She's  quite  a  pattern  wife  ; 

And  he  adores  her — well  he  may- 
Few  men  lead  such  a  life ! 

She  ne'er  had  married  mortal  man 
Till  he  had  won  her  heart ; 

And  my  second  darling's  just  the  same, — 
They're  seldom  known  apart. 

Her  husband  oft  has  pressed  my  hand, 

While  tears  were  in  his  eyes, 
And  said,  "  You  brought  my  Susan  up — 

With  you  the  credit  lies." 
To  make  her  a  domestic  wife, 

I  own  was  all  my  aim  ; 
And  my  second  is  domestic  too, — 

My  system  was  the  same. 


156  MY  MARRIED  DAUGHTER  COULD  YOU  SEE. 

Now,  do  you  know,  I've  often  thought 

The  eldest  of  the  two 
(She's  married  so  I  may  speak  out) 

Would  just  have  suited  you  ! 
You  never  saw  her  ? — how  shall  I 

My  eldest  girl  pourtray? 
Oh  !  my  second  is  her  counterpart, 

And  her  you'll  meet  to-day. 


157 


WHY  DON'T  THE  MEN  PROPOSE  7 

WHY  don't  the  men  propose,  mamma  ? 

Why  don't  the  men  propose  1 
Each  seems  just  coming  to  the  point, 

And  then  away  he  goes  ! 
It  is  no  fault  of  yours,  mamma, 

That  every  body  knows  ; 
You/£te  the  finest  men  in  town, 

Yet,  oh  !  they  won't  propose  ! 

I'm  sure  I've  done  my  best,  mamma, 

To  make  a  proper  match  ; 
For  coronets  and  eldest  sons 

I'm  ever  on  the  watch  ; 
I've  hopes  when  some  distingue  beau 

A  glance  upon  me  throws  ; 
But  though  he'll  dance,  and  smile,  and  flirt, 

Alas  !  he  won't  propose  ! 

I've  tried  to  win  by  languishing 

And  dressing  like  a  blue  ; 
I've  bought  big  books,  and  talked  of  them 

As  if  I'd  read  them  through  ! 
With  hair  cropped  like  a  man,  I've  felt 

The  heads  of  all  the  beaux  ; 

> 

But  Spurzheim  could  not  touch  their  hearts, 
And  oh  !  they  won't  propose  ! 


158  WHY  DON'T  THE  MEN  PROPOSE. 

I  threw  aside  the  books,  and  thought 

That  ignorance  was  bliss  ; 
I  felt  convinced  that  men  preferred 

A  simple  sort  of  Miss  ; 
And  so  I  lisped  out  naught  beyond 

Plain  "  yeses"  or  plain  "  noes," 
And  wore  a  sweet  unmeaning  smile  ; 

Yet,  oh  !  they  won't  propose  ! 

Last  night,  at  Lady  Ramble's  rout, 

I  heard  Sir  Harry  Gale 
Exclaim,  "  Now  I  propose  again  ;" 

I  started,  turning  pale  ; 
I  really  thought  my  time  was  come, 

I  blushed  like  any  rose  ; 
But  oh  !  I  found  'twas  only  at 

Ecarte  he'd  propose  ! 

And  what  is  to  be  done,  mamma  ? 

Oh  !  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
I  really  have  no  time  to  lose, 

For  I  am  thirty-one  : 
At  balls  I  am  too  often  left 

Where  spinsters  sit  in  rows ; 
Why  won't  the  men  propose,  mamma  ? 

Why  won't  the  men  propose  ? 


159 


LORD  HARRY  HAS  WRITTEN  A  NOVEL, 

LORD  HARRY  has  written  a  novel, 

A  story  of  elegant  life  ; 
No  stuff  about  love  in  a  hovel, 

No  sketch  of  a  clown  and  his  wife ; 
No  trash  such  as  pathos  and  passion, 

Fine  feelings,  expression,  or  wit ; 
But  all  about  people  of  fashion, 

Come,  look  at  his  caps  how  they  fit. 

Oh,  RadclifFe,  thou  once  wert  the  charmer 

Of  girls  who  sat  reading  all  night ; 
Thy  heroes  were  striplings  in  armour, 

Thy  heroines  damsels  in  white. 
But  past  are  those  terrible  touches ; 

Our  lips  in  derision  we  curl, 
Unless  we  are  told  how  the  duchess 

Conversed  with  her  cousin,  the  earl. 

Our  dialogues  now  must  be  quite  full 

Of  titles,  I  give  you  my  word  ; — 
"  My  lady,  you're  looking  delightful ;" 

"  Indeed  !  do  you  think  so,  my  lord  ?" 
"  You've  heard  of  the  marquis's  marriage, 

The  bride  with  her  jewels  new  set, 
Four  horses,  the  new  travelling  carriage, 

The  dejeune  a-la-fourchette  ?" 


160  LORD  HARRY  HAS  WRITTEN  A  NOVEL. 

Haul-ton  finds  her  privacy  broken, 

We  trace  all  her  ins  and  her  outs — 
The  very  small  talk  that  is  spoken 

By  very  great  people  at  routs. 
At  Tenby,  Miss  Jinks  asks  the  loan  of 

The  book  from  the  innkeeper's  wife, 
And  reads  till  she  thinks  she  is  one  of 

The  leaders  of  elegant  life. 


161 


THE  PIC-NIC. 

"  A  PIC-NIC  !  a  pic-nic  !  so  happy,  together ! 

Intelligent  women  !  agreeable  men  ! 
The  middle  of  June,  so  we  must  have  fine  weather ; 

We'll  go  upon  donkeys  to  Bogglemy  Glen. 
There  has  not  been  rain  for  six  weeks,  and  at  present 

There  is  not  the  slightest  appearance  of  change  ; 
No  pic-nic  I'm  sure  ever  yet  was  so  pleasant — 

Few  people  can  realize  all  they  arrange !" 

Oh  !  these  words  at  night  were  the  very  last  spoken, 

The  first  in  the  morning  were  equally  gay  ; 
There  was  a  great  mist,  which  we  knew  was  a  token 

At  noon  we  should  have  a  most  exquisite  day. 
The  donkeys  arrive,  and  the  sociable  meant  for 

The  matrons  unfitted  for  sidesaddle  feats  ; 
The  baskets  of  prog  and  the  hampers  are  sent  for, 

And  packed  in  the  rumbles,  or  under  the  seats. 

And  now  we  set  off — all  the  carriages  quite  full : 
Do  look  at  Miss  Symons,  how  oddly  she  sits  ! 

No  sun  to  annoy  us  !  it's  really  delightful  ! 

Don't  mind  Mrs.  Wilkins,  she  says  that  it  spits  ! 
11 


162  THE  PIC-NIC. 

Some  people  take  pleasure  in  throwing  cold  water 
On  parties  of  pleasure,  and  talking  of  damp ; 

She's  just  the  ill-natured  old  woman  I  thought  her  ; 
We'll  laugh  at  her  presently  when  we  encamp. 

My  donkey,  in  stooping  to  gather  a  thistle, 

Was  very  near  throwing  me  over  his  head. 
Dear  me !  I  do  think  it's  beginning  to  drizzle ! 

Oh  !  let  us  take  shelter  in  yonder  old  shed ! 
How  foolish  to  put  on  my  pink  satin  bonnet ! 

I  envy  Miss  Martin,  she's  snug  in  the  straw  ; 
My  lilac  pelisse,  too  !  the  water  drips  on  it, 

The  loveliest  lilac  that  ever  I  saw  ! 

For  my  part  I  own  I  like  this  sort  of  morning  : 

With  sun  perpendicular  what  could  we  do  ? 
So  pleasant  to  find  the  dust  laid  when  returning; 

'Twill  clear  up  at  twelve,  or  at  latest  at  two. 
And  now  we're  at  Bogglemy,  dear,  how  unlucky! 

I'm  sure  I  heard  something  like  thunder  just  then : 
The  place  is  so  gloomy* — the  path  is  so  mucky— 

I  scarce  can  believe  I'm  at  Bogglemy  Glen  ! 

We  cannot  dine  under  the  trees — it  would  chill  us  ; 

We'll  try  to  take  shelter  in  yonder  retreat : 
Oh,  dear !  it's  a  dirty  old  cowhouse,  'twill  kill  us  ; 

If  all  must  crowd  into  it,  think  of  the  heat ! 
A  soup-plate  inverted  Miss  Millington  uses 

To  keep  her  thin  slippers  above  the  wet  clay ; 
Oh  !  see  through  the  roof  how  the  rain-water  oozes — 

The  dinner  will  all  taste  of  dripping  to-day ! 


THE  PIC-NIC.  163 

A  pic-nic  !  a  pic-nic  !  so  wretched  together  ! 

All  draggle-tail  women,  and  cross-looking  men  ! 
The  middle  of  June,  yet  this  terrible  weather 

Has  made  a  morass  of  poor  Bogglemy  Glen  ? 
It  rains  just  like  buckets  of  water;  at  present 

There  is  not  the  slightest  appearance  of  change  : 
'Twas  very  absurd  to  leave  Waterloo  Crescent — 

Few  people  can  realize  all  they  arrange. 


164 


.  MY  DEJEUNER  A  LA  FOURCHETTE. 

WHAT  a  beautiful  day  !     Had  the  weather  been  wet, 

What  a  damp  on  my  Dejeuner  a  la  Fourchette ! 

There  is  but  one  drawback,  I  own,  to  my  bliss, — 

'Tis  late  in  the  year  for  a  party  like  this ; 

So  I've  stuck  paper  roses  on  every  bush, 

And  my  garden  has  quite  got  a  midsummer  blush ; 

And  I've  calico  lilies  judiciously  set,' 

To  embellish  my  Dejeuner  a  la  Fourchette. 

I've  ordered  the  people  to  water  the  road 
All  the  way  from  the  town  to  my  rural  abode. 
'Till  three,  I  suppose,  not  a  soul  will  arrive, — 
Bless  me  !  there's  a  chaise  at  the  end  of  the  drive 
'Tis  old  Mrs.  Smith  ! — what  can  bring  her  so  soon  ? 
She  thinks  herself  late,  too, — a  breakfast  at  noon  ! 
And  dressed,  I  protest,  in  her  best  tabinet, — 
What  a  blot  on  my  Dejeuner  a  la  Fourchette  ! 

Here's  a  three-cornered  note,  (how  excited  1  feel !) 
What  an  elegant  hand  !  and  coronet  seal ! 
From  the  Duchess,  confined  to  her  room  with  a  cough  ; 
Had  I  known,  I'd  have  put  my  sweet  Dejeuner  off. 
An  excuse  from  Sir  Thomas, — "  A  touch  of  the  gout !" 
And  one  from  Lord  Harry, — "  Too  ill  to  go  out !" 
I  declare  I  have  lost  all  the  cream  of  the  set 
That  I  asked  to  my  Dejeuner  a  la  Fourchette ! 


MY  DEJEUNER  A  LA  FOURCHETTE.  165 

But  the  guests  are  arriving.     My  villa  has  got 
Quite  a  park-like  appearance—  a  beautiful  spot ! 
The  singers,  equipped  in  a  foreign  costume, — 
The  horns  in  that  arbour,  too  loud  for  a  room, — 
The  band  on  the  lawn  in  the  pretty  marquee, — 
This  tent  for  the  dinner,  and  that  for  the  tea. 
(Though  breakfast  they  call  it,  no  dinner  they'll  get, 
Except  at  my  Dejeuner  a  la  Fourchette.) 

What's  Harris,  my  butler,  attempting  to  say  ? 

"  Champagne  !"  why  we  gave  out  ten  dozen  to-day  ! 

"  All  gone  !  and  the  officers  calling  for  more  !" 

Go  open  the  tent  for  quadrilles,  I  implore  ; 

Go,  Harris,  and  hint  we're  expecting  them  soon, 

And  tell  Mr.  Tweedle  to  strike  up  a  tune. 

I'm  certain  my  husband  will  never  forget 

The  cost  of  my  Dejeuner  a  la  Fourchette. 

'Tis  getting  quite  dark  ;  that  unfortunate  breeze 
Blows  out  all  the  lamps  that  we  placed  in  the  trees. 
The  dew  is  so  heavy,  my  rockets  won't  go ; 
And  my  Catherine-wheels  are  exceedingly  slow. 
But  I  heed  not  the  darkness, — if  people  are  lost, 
What  accounts  there  will  be  in  the  Herald  and  Post ; 
And  'twill  give  me  eclat  if  a  lord  is  upset 
On  his  way  from  my  Dejeuner  a  la  Fourchette. 


166 


OH !  TAKE  ME  A  BOX  AT.  THE  OPERA. 

OH  !  take  me  a  box  at  the  Opera, 

In  the  tier  above  the  pit ; 
I  must  premise  I'd  not  consent 

Three  stories  high  to  sit : 
I  like  the  box  at  the  bend  of  the  house — 

You  well  know  the  box  I  mean ; 
'Tis  not  so  much  to  hear  and  see, 

As  to  be  heard  and  seen. 

Yet  I'm  so  fond  of  an  Opera ! 

Sweet  sounds  are  my  heart's  delight ! 
But  recollect  I  don't  object 

To  chatter  all  the  night ; 
/  have  such  a  musical  soul,  no  noise 

Can  the  sweet  illusion  baulk  ; 
I  like  the  songs  the  more,  I  think, 

The  more  the  people  talk ! 

And  whenever  we  go  to  the  Opera, 

I  really  must  engage 
To  have  the  seat  I  most  prefer, 

The  seat  that's  next  the  stage : 
I  know  some  think  the  other  is  best, 

But  thaPs  a  place  divine, 
If  you  have  a  graceful  turn  of  the  head, 

And  a  hand  and  arm — like  mine. 


OH,  TAKE  ME  A  BOX  AT  THE  OPERA.  167 

When  you've  taken  the  box  at  the  Opera, 

Go — do  as  you  like,  my  dear, — 
At  Crockford's  dine,  play  all  night  long, 

Fll  never  interfere. 
I  shall  always  fill  my  box,  of  course, 

With  a  few  distingue  men  ; 
But  if  you  knock,  perhaps  we  may 

Admit  you  now  and  then. 

We  must  have  a  box  at  the  Opera, 

And  one  that  is  large  enough ; 
For  it  will  help  to  get  dear  Jane 

And  sweet  Maria  off. 
And  when  I  seem  to  be  flirting  in  front, 

Of  course  you  will  bear  in  mind, 
'Tis  only,  my  dear,  that  I  turn  a  deaf  ear 

To  those  who  are  flirting  behind. 


THE    END. 


BfeRANGER'S  SONGS. 


CAREY    AND    HART 

HAVE   JUST    PUBLISHED 

THE   SONGS    OF  STRANGER, 

In 


WITH  A  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  LIFE. 


Life  of  Beranger, 

Love,     Friendship,     and 

Wine, 
The  Garret, 
The  Song  of  Brennus, 
The  Dinner  of  Dionysius, 
The  Carrier  Dove, 
The  Old  Banner, 
The  Broken  Violin, 
The  Shooting  Stars, 
The  Good  Old  Woman, 
Louis  The  Eleventh, 
Ma  Guerison, 
My  Jours  Gras  of  1829, 
Secret  Courtship, 
Thirteen  at  a  Table, 
The  Songs  of  the  People, 
The  Holy  Alliance, 
The  Song  of  the  Cossack, 
The  Exiled  Angel, 


CONTENTS. 

Old  Age, 

The  Cry  of  France, 
The  Veterans, 
Were  I  a  Bird, 
Wine  and  Women, 
The  Goddess  of  Liberty, 
The  Smugglers, 
The  Wandering  Jew, 
Mary  Stuart's  Farewell  to 
France, 


My  Republic, 

The  King  of  Yvetot, 

The  Grave  of  Manuel, 

My  Old  Coat, 

The  Suicides, 

Romance, 

The  Court  Dress, 

No  more  Politics, 

Adieu  to  the  Country, 

The  Birds, 


The  Commencement  of  the  Remembrances  of  Infancy, 

Voyage,  The  Puppets, 

The  Tailor  and  the  Fairy,  My  Vocation, 

The  Plebeian,  The  Swallows, 

The  Sons  of  France,  The  Actress, 

The  Good  Old  Man,  Charles  the  Simple, 

The  Fairy,  The  Infinitely  Little, 

Your  Power  use  for  your  The  Devil's  Death, 

Subjects'  Sake,  The  Comet  of  1832, 

The  Prisoner  of  War,  Adieu  to  Song. 

BEAUTIFULLY  PRINTED  ON  FINE  PAPER, 
AND  MAGNIFICENTLY  BOUND  IN  WHltE  CALF  AND  MOROCCO,  GILT  EDGES. 

"Under  the  simple  title  of  Song-  Writer,  a  man  has  become  one  of  the  greatest 
poets  that  France  has  produced;  with  a  genius  partaking  of  that  of  Horace  and 
La  Fontaine,  he  sings,  when  he  chooses,  as  Tacitus  wrote." — Chateaubriand's  His- 
torical Studies. 

"  An  erotic  and  bacchanalian  poet,  a  satirical  poet,  an  elegiac  poet,  and  a  lyric 
poet — a  quadruple  genius,  inspired  by  the  senses,  by  the  mind,  by  the  heart  and  by 
the  soul." — Conspicuous  Living  Characters  of  France. 

"  Beranger  makes  sublime  odes,  whilst  thinking  he  is  only  making  songs." — Ben- 
jamin Constant. 

"The  competitor  of  Panard  and  Coll6  rises  to  a  rivalship  with  Homer  and  Tyr- 
taeus."—  Walsk. 


SPLENDID  BOOKS 

JUST  PUBLISHED   BY   CAREY  AND   HART, 

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A  1 


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2 


BfcRANGER'S  SONGS. 


THE    SONGS    OF    BER ANGER, 


ENGLISH. 


A  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  LIFE. 


Life  of  Beranger, 
Love,     Friendship, 

Wine, 
The  Garret, 
The  Song  of  Brennus, 
The  Dinner  of  Dionysius, 
The  Carrier  Dove, 
The  Old  Banner, 
The  Broken  Violin, 
The  Shooting  Stars, 
The  Good  Old  Woman, 
Louis  the  Eleventh, 
Ma  Guerison, 
My  Jours  Gras  of  1829, 
Secret  Courtship, 
Thirteen  at  a  Table, 
The  Songs  of  the  People, 
The  Holy  Alliance, 
The  Song  of  the  Cossack, 
The  Exiled  Angel, 


CONTENTS. 

Old  Age,  My  Republic, 

and    The  Cry  of  Prance,  The  King  of  Yvetot, 

The  Veterans,  The  Grave  of  Manuel, 

Were  I  a  Bird,  My  Old  Coat, 

Wine  and  Women,  The  Suicides, 

The  Goddess  of  Liberty,  Romance, 

The  Smugglers,  The  Court  Dress, 

The  Wandering  Jew,  No  more  Politics, 

Mary  Stuart's  Farewell  to  Adieu  to  the  Country, 

France,  The  Birds, 

The  Commencement  of  the  Remembrances  of  Infancy, 

Voyage,  The  Puppets, 

The  Tailor  and  the  Fairy,  My  Vocation, 

The  Plebeian,  The  Swallows, 

The  Sons  of  France,  The  Actress, 

The  Good  Old  Man,  Charles  the  Simple, 

The  Fairy,  The  Infinitely  Little, 

Your  Power  use  for  your  The  Devil's  Death, 

Subjects'  Sake,  The  Comet  of  1832, 

The  Prisoner  of  War,  Adieu  to  Song. 


BEAUTIFULLY  PRINTED  ON  FINE  PAPER, 
AND  MAGNIFICENTLY  BOUND  IN  WHITE  CALF  AND  MOROCCO,  GILT  EDGES. 

"Under  the  simple  title  of  Song  Writer,  a  man  has  become  one  of  the  greatest 
poets  that  France  has  produced;  with  a  genius  partaking  of  that  of  Horace  and 
La  Fontaine,  he  sings,  when  he  chooses,  as  Tacitus  wrote." — Chateaubriand's  His- 
torical Studies. 

"  An  erotic  and  bacchanalian  poet,  a  satirical  poet,  an  elegiac  poet,  and  a  lyric 
poet— a  quadruple  genius,  inspired  by  the  senses,  by  the  mind,  by  the  heart  and  by 
the  soul." — Conspicuous  Living  Characters  of  France. 

"  Beranger  makes  sublime  odes,  whilst  thinking  he  is  only  making  songs." — Ben* 
jamin  Constant. 

"The  competitor  of  Panard  and  Colte  rises  to  a  rivalship  with  Homer  and  Tyr- 
tams."—  Walsh. 


HAYNtiS  BAYLY'S  SONGS. 


SONGS    AND     BALLADS, 

(3>rat)e  anb  Oag* 

BY  THE  LATE 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 

WITH 

A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  AUTHOR, 


IN 


fE     HANDSOME     VOLUME. 


Life  of  Haynes-'Bayly, 
It  is  not  on  the  battle  field, 
The  Rovei 

0  no^e/ilever  mention  her 
She  njjver  blamed  him, 

une  me  home, 
met,  'twas  in  a  crowd, 
'm  saddest  when  I  sing, 
/\  love  the  village  church, 

Morning  its  sweets  is  fling- 
ing, 

Toujours  le  meme, 

In  happier  hours, 

My  own  blue  bell, 

Why  comes  he  not? 

Hark,  hark,  I  hear  the  dis- 
tant drum, 

He  came  at  morn, 

The  Gipsy's  haunt, 

The  first  gray  hair, 

1  never  was  a  favourite, 
Upon  thy  truth  relying, 
O,  say  not  'twere  a  keener 

blow, 

Before  the  drawing  room, 
Why  don't  the  men  pro- 
pose? 

The  soldier's  tear, 
The  dews  of  night, 
I'll  meet  thee  once  more, 
I've  heard  my  own  dear 

mother  sing, 
She  would  not  know  me, 
Throw  a  leaf  on  the  river, 
Our  early  days. 
Home  of  my  youth, 
Long,  long  ago, 


CONTENTS. 

The  lady  of  my  lord, 
When  we  and  care  were 

strangers, 
Oh  !      hadst   thou    never 

shared  my  fate, 
You  remember  it, 
She  wore  a  wreath  of  roses, 
Teach  oh,  teach  me, 
Listen,  dear  Fanny, 
Come,  dwell  with  me, 
Beauty,  wit  and  gold, 
My  pretty  Kate, 
The  Veteran, 
They  chide  my  grief, 
The  Pilot, 
Rose  Aleen, 
We  met, 

The  gipsy's  mystery, 
The  last  green  leaf, 
Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee 

well, 

May  thy  lot  be  happy, 
Seek  not  with  gold, 
The  dark  winter  time, 
What  shall  be  my  theme? 
The  deserted  bride, 
Love  is  the  theme  of  the 

minstrel, 

To  linger  near  thee, 
Woman's  courage, 
Theodore's  messenger, 
I  cannot  dance  to  night, 
Is  there  an  unbeliever? 
The  weary  watchman, 
Lord  Harry  has  written  a 

novel, 

The  forsaken  one, 
&c.  &c.  &c. 


Three  weeks  after  mar- 
riage, 

The  accepted, 

Of  what  is  the  old  man 
thinking? 

Go  and  forget  that  we  have 
met, 

I  saw  her  on  the  vessel's 
deck, 

The  forsaken  to  the  false 
one, 

My  married  daughter  could 
you  see, 

A  county  ball  on  Almack's 
plan, 

My  home  is  the  world, 

A  lady  heard  the  minstrel 
sing, 

The  old  kirk  yard, 

In  happier  hours, 

Dearer  than  life  thou  art, 

The  vows  of  men, 

I  wish  he  would  drink, 

Ever  green  ivy, 

Old  age  and  youth, 

The  sea  pink, 

Lady  Elizabeth  Burd, 

I  saw  her  as  I  fancied  fair, 

Look,  look  how  we  moul- 
der, 

I'd  be  an  alderman, 

Round  my  own  pretty  rose 

Were  men  to  judge  of 
things  aright, 

O  !  I  come  not  to  upbraid 
thee, 

The  Belle  of  the  year, 


PRINTED  ON  FINE  PAPER,  AND  SUPERBLY  BOUND  IN  CALF  AND  MOROCCO. 

4 


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